


The Wanderer

by WhiskeyCash



Series: The Wanderer [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Attempt at Humor, Author Commentary, Comedy, Drama & Romance, Drinking, Erotica, Fist Fights, Fourth Wall, Guitars, Inspired by Music, M/M, Meta, Music, Oral Sex, Politics, References to Drugs, Romantic Comedy, Rough Sex, Smut, Spoilers, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 15:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11084784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskeyCash/pseuds/WhiskeyCash
Summary: "The Wanderer" is a long-winded narrative of a complex romance in the Mojave told through the exploits of one guitar-wielding jokester.Male Courier Six, Jackson Sims, is an insolent puckish wanderer with a moral ambiguity and lack of allegiance.  After crucifying Benny, Jackson is approached by Vulpes Inculta and the two push and pull each other in a game of egos thinly veiling their sexual tension as political discourse plagues the land.





	1. Any Old Wind That Blows

**Author's Note:**

> Comedy, romance, drama, smut and profanity. Enjoy a tale of irradiated Mojave love with a lot of references to country music and other things you don't care to see in erotica. 
> 
> It’s my first time posting fanfic so please be sure to let me know if you like it, or hate it! Ask if you got any questions. Let me know if you see any significant discrepancies.

 

* * *

**Part I:   Highwayman**

Earth was rebirthed in nuclear fire that twisted its already systematically abused body into an unceasing reminder of consequence.  Echoes of its softer past lie obstructed by the new callous exterior.  In this way our courier embodied the wasteland.  Revival after frontal lobe damage birthed Jackson anew—hungry, arrogant, stalwart just like the land that spat him out of his grave. 

 

Whoever the courier was before Benny’s bullet had died that night in Goodsprings.  This being baptized in dirt was a new beast; one that like the warheads that scorched the planet was a chisel to humanity.  Though how it was to be sculpted remains undetermined.  Even a beast must first learn to walk, learn to recognize its own reflection.

 

Like a toddler, Jackson began his new life with reckless curiously.  Perhaps to anyone with an established sense of personal mortality this rashness was taunting death but the courier made a home in his impulsivity.  Just a month after Goodsprings, the beast condensed its shape and it didn’t take long for the Mojave to take notice.  Jackson became a folk hero.  The headline in the news.  The one person everyone payed attention to.  _That Courier from Goodsprings_.  Famed for his charisma, mercenary work and ability to take a bullet in the head, Jackson settled into himself nicely.  The Mojave responded well.  Most, anyways.

 

Wanderlust and a lifetime spent a nomad kept Jackson sleeping by campfires most nights.  No complaint.  He enjoyed the relief of the cold night air and the millions of stars above whose constellations served as bedtime stories for the celestially curious.  Sleeping mat in the desert became home on the range once he got his hands on a guitar that would go on to be as much a part of his character as his title of Courier. 

 

A while after Jackson’s lazarinthian revival at Goodsprings just as he started making news headlines, he noticed he was being followed.  By chance on one of his outings he caught a glimpse of a silhouette in far off hills.  Jackson waved to the shadow but it merely stood there before disappearing from sight.  He thought little of it.

 

In time, his travels eventually took him across the Colorado River to Caesar’s Fort.

 

 

* * *

**Part II:   The Gambler**

Jackson reported back to Caesar who said he simply felt a rumble underground and assumed the bunker was destroyed.  He didn’t even ask any questions—merely assumed the courier wasn’t stupid enough to disobey him amid his own army.  As time would go on, the courier would forever surprise people with his audacious stupidity and sophomoric defiance for authority.  Nonetheless as a reward Caesar let Jackson decide the captive Benny’s fate. 

                 

There were a number of ways Benny could go out.  He could be slapped around in the arena in a one-on-one.  He could simply be executed by Legion soldiers.  He could even more simply meet his end right there in Caesar’s tent under the brute fists of the vengeance-fueled courier.  All those ideas underwhelmed Jackson though.  There was only one real option that sparked his interest—crucifixion.  In the Mojave, it’s known as the worst way to die.  Slow, agonizing, hopeless… like an evening spent at the Atomic Wrangler but with less wonder twins and more crows picking out your gooey bits. 

 

Jackson told Benny he was having him crucified.  For the first time Jackson had ever seen, maybe even the first time anyone has ever seen, he saw the fear in Benny’s eyes.  Crucifixion would rob him of that one thing he truly cared about—his pride.  So the courier smiled when Benny begged him to change his mind.  Jackson wasn’t exactly evil… if anything he lacks an established sense of morals, boundaries and restraint, like a child still learning.

 

“You sick vindictive fuck!” Benny screamed as the Legion guards fell upon him.

 

There was just one more thing Jackson needed from Benny.  His dear pistol, Maria—the very gun that spat that bullet into his head and started all of this.  The Praetorians stood Benny to his feet as he continued to kick and swear at the courier.  Jackson dug through that checkered coat and greeted Maria like an old friend, reclaiming her tenderly just to further spite the Chairman. 

 

They dragged the defeated Benny away as the courier followed, being sure not to miss a single moment of just desert desserts.  They took him to the ledge overlooking the entry to The Fort. 

 

So there he was.  Splayed out on a rusty blood-stained crucifix like a grotesque work of art—a decorative statement that captured the essence of Legion, the essence of the courier’s capacity for cruelty.  The man who killed Courier Six.  The man who infiltrated Legion.  The man who _almost_ changed New Vegas.  Funny how lives end in the wasteland. 

 

The torture and humiliation seemed enough to instill an uncharacteristic silence in Benny. 

 

It was pretty.  Everything—the sunset, the water, Benny doing his best Jesus impersonation and the promise of change upon the horizon of tomorrow.  Jackson and Benny watched the sun go down and the courier quietly wondered if it would be the last one Benny saw.  The courier glanced around to be sure no one was watching when he extracted a smuggled flask of whiskey from his pocket and took a swig.  After a while a sense of peace replaced Jackson’s sadistic excitement as he drank.

 

 

* * *

**Part III:   The One on the Right is on the Left**

“Fortification Hill is quite pretty at night, don’t you think?”

 

Jackson chokes on his drink and hurdles it off the cliff in surprise, “It’s for my heart condition!”  He turns to see Vulpes Inculta.  “Oh… it’s just you—Caesar’s envoy or whatever…”

 

_‘What the hell?  Who fucking threw a bottle at me?!’_

 

“So what did he do to earn your bloodlust?” Vulpes asks, ignoring the absurdity and nods to Benny.

 

“Oh… He’s the man who set me up, shot me in the brain and buried me alive,” the courier answers bluntly, “Then when I decided to show him mercy, he sent his goons to try and kill me a second time.”

 

“Foolish to pardon an individual so guileful and self-absorbed,” haughty words but speech devoid of emotion.

 

“Caesar pardoned me,” Jackson quips cleverly.  He turns to smile at Vulpes.  It’s a nice smile but also smug and impish.  The sort of grin you’d see on an old world monkey right before it did something terribly crude.  He adds, “I’m just kidding… Say, how long does it take someone to die from crucifixion anyways?”

 

Vulpes looks at Benny in consideration, “A week perhaps… depends on how strong willed they are… how quickly they dehydrate.  Your foe seems as though he may last longer.”

 

Jackson chuckles softly at the thought.  He likes the frumentarii’s voice—it’s hollow and metallic, like running your fingers through a pile of spent casings.  He remembers where he first heard the voice.  “Want to sit?”

 

He offers a spot next to him and Vulpes sits quietly. 

 

“So… you’re that dog-faced red skirt who burned Nipton to cinder, right?” Jackson asked without the faintest degree of subtly, “You look different without that mutt on your head but I recognize your voice.”

 

Vulpes makes a sound of exasperated annoyance, “I am Vulpes Inculta, greatest of Caesar’s frumentarii… And you speak without restraint… like a child.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Not a compliment.”

 

“I’m Jackson Sims, by the way.  But most people just call me _That Courier from Goodsprings_.”

 

“Yes, I’m aware.”

 

“You need to work on your social skills.”

 

“So do you.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“Check it out,” Jackson says and hands Vulpes Benny’s pistol, “That’s the gun he used to kill me with.  Pretty neat it seems like it was fired the once after all this time…”

 

“You seem to be functioning rather well for someone who was shot in the brain,” he offers the gun back after turning it over in his hands, “You have the doggedness and ruthlessness of a potential Legion soldier, you know.”

 

“Ooh, I got a song about it, too!” Jackson excitedly reaches for his bag but stops when he remembers most of his gear was confiscated at the gate, “Oh that’s right… your dickbag bouncer wouldn’t let me bring my guitar in.”

 

“Ugh, good,” Vulpes grunts, relieved.

 

“Chems I get, but no music?” Jackson scoffs, “Let’s just say I do _Nazi_ the appeal of Legion.”  Jackson was hoping for a reaction but gets none.  “Okay, well fine… Was there something you wanted from me?” he asks suspiciously.

 

“I saw you decide Benny’s fate with a smile,” Vulpes answers, “Thought perhaps there is redemption for you yet.”

 

“Redemption?” Jackson scoffs, turning to look at the frumentarii, “I blew the bunker in Fortification Hill.”  Lies.

 

“Carrying out Caesar’s orders knowing there’s an army adjacent and ready to punish disobedience is hardly worth commendation.  Even less, amelioration for the crimes you’ve committed against Legion,” says Vulpes coldly, “We’ve not forgot your removing our spy at McCarren, nor your massacre at Cottonwood Cove nor any of you other interventions that have earned you idolization from the NCR.”

 

Jackson laughs a little, tilting his head upward as he recalls the murderous memories like fondness for pre-war summer days, “I almost forgot… I guess I did ruffle you red skirts up.  Well, hey, just for the record I didn’t even want to cull Cottonwood Cove.  That was Boone’s idea and as his self-appointed therapist, I thought it would be helpful for his mental recovery.”

 

Knowing the courier merely thought himself puckish, what leaves Vulpes’ throat is another annoyed grumble, “You’re a therapist now?”

 

“Well I don’t want to brag…” Jackson teases, mockingly examining his fingernails, “But I’ve probably shrunk as many heads as I’ve exploded.”

 

“And yet your insolence is but a thinly disguised attempt to mask your fear and insecurity,” Vulpes says snidely.

 

Jackson grins as he looks at the frumentarii, “ _Now_ who’s the shrink?”

 

Vulpes quietly judges the shit out of the flippant courier.  It’s one thing to observe his behavior from afar but it was much different interacting with him face-to-face.  The frumentarii is equally surprised and off-put at Jackson’s character and is already beginning to reconsider his potential usefulness to Legion.  He’s reminded, however, that despite the courier’s impudent personality, he was still the man behind all the most noteworthy events in the Mojave.  Apparently you can be an inane jokester and still get shit done like resurrect a pre-war dogfighter jet or even put a ghoul on the moon.

 

Jackson cocks his head perplexed by Vulpes’ sudden quietness, unaware of the inner monologue going through the frumentarii’s mind.  He makes a soft noise and Vulpes snaps back to earth.

 

He clears his throat and continues as though the silence never happened, “I inform you that Caesar may have expunged your sins but I still see you as dangerously capricious and worthy of my careful watch so long as you do not stand with us.  You have single-handedly pushed back against Legion harder than the entire NCR in recent months.  But I’ve been observing you—”

 

“Wait, you’ve been what?” Jackson frowns, but the frumentarii continues.

 

“I’ve been observing you and I see no allegiance to any faction… just yourself… and sometimes, not even yourself.  You’re a powerful and influential independent who would easily be a vital asset to our cause.  And if we stake claim to you, it would at least prevent you from helping the NCR further than you already have.”

 

Jackson makes a soft noise of consideration before he follows up, “Well… then give me your best pitch, Vulpes.”

 

When Jackson says the frumentarii’s name, he tenses and his stomach flutters.  But before he can respond there’s a weak croak from behind the pair as Benny interjects, “You… fucks… listening to this crap is worse torture… than hanging up here…”

 

“Shut your filthy mouth, profligate!” Jackson shouts.  He turns to grin goofily to Vulpes, “Did I use that right?  _Profligate_?”

 

“Yes, you did,” Vulpes actually chuckles.  The courier is so amazed by the frumentarii’s ability to laugh, he can’t help but let his face twist in surprise.  Noticing this, Vulpes instantly pockets his smile as he reddens and lightly presses a hand to his face in a weak attempt to hide the blushing.

 

“Huh…” just a simple noise of internal rumination.  Jackson continues to stare at Vulpes despite him now avoiding eye contact.  It wasn’t until that moment the courier began to consider the frumentarii in a different light.  He felt a magnetism to Vulpes the several times he bumped into him before but this little conversation seemed to open a new avenue.  He wonders just how effective Legion discipline is before returning his gaze to the shimmering moonlight blanketing the surface of still waters.

 

Vulpes clears his throat, simultaneously attempting to clear the air of awkwardness.

 

“I’ll kill Mr. House,” Jackson states, using business as an excuse to validate their interactions, “You’re frumentarii… So… maybe you could give me some pointers on how I can off the man with stealth and elegance.”

 

“Oh-kay…” Vulpes answers with some surprise.

 

Jackson gets to his feet with a light grunt, feeling the weight of the day pleading him to stay reposed, “You know I have access to the Lucky 38… as do any of my guests.  Why don’t you come to my suite there tomorrow night so we can… strategize.”

 

The covertness of that last word lingers in the air like radiation.  They lock eyes and the unspoken communication in their gaze insinuated discrepancy and possible ulterior motives.   After ushering one final string of profanities to Benny, Jackson departs The Fort.

 

 

* * *

**Part IV:   Cold, Cold Heart**

The next day Jackson waits in his suite at the Lucky 38, wondering if Vulpes was actually going to come or not.  He was eager to see the frumentarii again, so eager that he forgot to plan anything if he did show.  The allure of being invited into the mysterious Lucky 38 and admittance to his willingness to carry out Caesar’s order should be enticing enough for the furmantarii to simply _have to_ show, Jackson predicts.  It would be irresponsible for him not to.  From a tactical standpoint… 

 

Jackson sits beside the radio smoking a cigarette and listens to Mr. New Vegas report about the Goodsprings Powder Ganger pushback.  He sighs with annoyance. 

 

“That fucking happened months ago,” he says either to himself or Mr. New Vegas, “Get some new news, already.”  He stubs his cigarette out in the stone ashtray.  “And some new music, for the love of absolute shit.  If I hear _Johnny Guitar_ one more fucking time I’ll—”

 

When he hears the ping of the elevator doors Jackson quickly shuts off the radio and rises to greet the visitor.  It really is Vulpes.  Standing there rather on edge, smartly clad in a brown suit and matching pre-war hat, perfectly disguised as a civilian if not for those dead piercing eyes that could bore a hole through a vault door.

 

“Vulpes… you came,” Jackson smiles, impressed.

 

“You’re pronouncing it wrong,” he says, offended, “It’s _Vulpes_ …”

 

The courier’s eyes tilt upward in consideration.  _The clumsy ‘W’ sound robs the name of its punch_ , he thinks to himself.  “Hmm… I like Vulpes better.”

 

“I suppose to profligate ears the pedestrian phonetics are more palatable,” Vulpes responds coldly.

 

“Yeesh, are you always on?” Jackson taunts.  Vulpes opens his mouth to respond, probably with something literal but the courier swiftly cuts him off.  “Have a drink with me,” he claps his hands and makes his way to the bar; the only part of the suite Jackson was content with.

 

The courier stands two glasses on the counter and hums a bit as he strolls his fingers over the wall of liquor bottles he collected himself.  Settling on a whiskey he uncaps the bottle with a little pop and pours two overly-generous shots.  Jackson picks up his own glass and nods to the other, expectantly.

 

“I thought we are here to discuss business, not drink,” Vulpes says, though reluctantly drags himself to the bar to ignore the glass poured for him.

 

Jackson sips his drink, “This _is_ how people discuss business.”  He nudges the glass closer to Vulpes who eyes it like it’s giving him the middle finger.  “Okay,” Jackson sets his own drink down, “You’re entirely too tense…  Standing there, judging me like a… like a, like a _judge_.  Fuckssake, have a drink before your asshole permanently puckers.”

 

Vulpes makes another aggravated throaty noise then slowly picks up the drink and stifles the impulse to wretch at the pungency of bathtub brewed whiskey.  Probably not even a clean bathtub either.  Still, it was strangely tempting.

 

“Caesar does not permit such hedonistic indulgences in his ranks.”

 

“I bet he permit sticks up butts, though.  As that ancient archaic saying goes… _Snitches get stiches_ ,” Jackson laughs at his own humor, “I’m not going to tell on you, you weird little spider.”

 

Vulpes hesitates before tossing back the entire shot then slams the empty glass onto the counter as some kind of act of bravado and does everything in his power to suck up the tears forming in the corner of his eyes.  Jackson can’t help but laugh again as he follows suit.  Vulpes was fun to watch, fun to play with. 

 

“You drink well,” the courier compliments unctuously, refilling Vulpes’ drink, “Whether it’s whiskey poured by a former enemy or lies poured from the mouth of a balding lunatic in a skirt, you just drink up whatever anyone gives you, huh?”

 

A challenge in and of itself, Jackson passes the refilled glass back to Vulpes and cocks an eyebrow, waiting for a reaction.  Vulpes eyes the bronze liquid, chewing on the courier’s accusation.  The frumentarii was a follower, he himself knew that.  To Vulpes, this drink check was a test of his self-assurance; to Jackson, it was a test of the frumentarii’s suggestibility.  Vulpes stiffly picks the glass up and tosses it back as well.  The courier quietly studies him as he does so and seems perfectly satisfied with the results of his little experiment.

 

“You know why I invited you to the Lucky 38 over any other location?” the courier asks rather rhetorically as he refills their drinks once again, “We could be talking at the Tops, or Novac, or even my favorite dumpster in Goodsprings… no… I chose the Lucky 38 because—”

 

“Because you wanted to taunt me with the proximity to our high profile target and reaffirm my inability to get any closer to him without your cooperation,” Vulpes completes the thought.

 

With a slight smile, Jackson pauses serving and nods, “Verbose… but, yes.  You’re the second person to step foot in the Lucky 38 in hundreds of years.  Mr. House is somewhere in the belly of this forgotten casino in a room off-limits to even me.”

 

“I see…” Vulpes sighs, “You haven’t met him face-to-face, I figured.”

 

“No, of course not,” he says, amused, and pushes the glass back to Vulpes, “Mr. House meeting me face-to-face is almost as stupid as him trusting me with the Platinum Chip.”  Jackson takes a small sip.  He’s still rather surprised that Legion didn’t realize he had actually upgraded Mr. House’s army rather than destroy it like Caesar demanded.  Wonders how long he can hide the fact.  He continues, “I know the path to House and I’m the only person who can even set foot on that floor that leads to him.  Do you know what that means?”

 

“It means you’re just some lucky degenerate who cheated death and is now thoroughly drunk on his own sense of self-importance.” 

 

“Whiskey, actually.  And it means I’m single-handedly the only person who actually _can_ kill Mr. House,” Jackson goes on, “It means until House is dead, I’m indispensable to Caesar and you know that…  You’re a few dozen feet away from a man Caesar would do anything to kill and there’s nothing you can do about it.  And if you off me, you off any opportunity to get to Mr. House.”  The courier smiles and holds his hands out pompously.  “I’m un-killable.”

 

“That’s not a word,” Vulpes says flatly as he takes another sip from his drink.  In his tipsiness he’s now actually enjoying the burn of liquor.

 

“Well I’m not wrong, am I?” Jackson smiles, leaning over the bar counter smugly.

 

No response.

 

“Hah,” the courier nods a bit, “Yeah that silence says it all… Makes me wonder why you even bothered to smuggle in that little cactus needle you call a blade.  What are you going to use it for if not palpably empty threats?”

 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re nauseatingly orotund and loquacious?” Vulpes rolls his eyes.

 

“Uh, no,” Jackson chuckles, “But maybe that’s because you’re the only person brainy enough within, like, 25,000 miles to know what those words even mean.”

 

“The Earth’s circumference is less than 25,000 miles…” informs Vulpes.*

 

“See?” Jackson holds his hand out at the frumentarii, “Who the fuck else would know that?”

 

“So this invitation,” Vulpes gestures to the room, “It was just an excuse to taunt me?”

 

Jackson chuckles into his drink, “I don’t need an excuse to taunt you.”

 

“Then I’m simply here for your own amusement,” Vulpes implies daringly with furrowed brows.

 

 _Goddammit, I knew I should’ve rehearsed something_ , Jackson thinks to himself before vocalizing, “Well you can always leave.  Out’s the way you came.”  He nods to the door.

 

Vulpes suspiciously eyes the courier for a moment then turns to leave.

 

 _Fuck_ , Jackson swears in his head, _Bluff called_.

 

“Oh, uh, just be sure to tell Caesar all about our meeting in the inaccessible Lucky 38 and how you pissed away a once in a lifetime opportunity to collaborate with me in killing enemy number one,” the devious courier adds.  He takes another sip of his drink to punctuate the remark and mentally pats himself on the back for coming up with that save on the fly.

 

Upon the words Vulpes halts.  Jackson can almost hear the gears clicking in the frumentarii’s brain. 

 

In the old world, Jackson would’ve been called a player.  As Vulpes pointed out earlier, Jackson lacked sincere allegiance—there were no factions the courier held sacred, no one he wasn’t willing to help or harm or steal from.  But the courier wasn’t entirely tactless.  While he was still undecided in who he was going to support in the war and what system of government he would advocate for New Vegas, Jackson felt it best to ensure his own safety by painting himself a vital asset to any and all.  Maybe he was planning on killing Mr. House, maybe not.  What was most important to him was reassurance he was considered an ally to Legion, NCR and the Strip.  Many would consider this path of appeasement and karmic neutrality an inauspicious route but Jackson always preferred playing the game for as long as possible and the more convoluted, the better.

 

Initially Vulpes thought of Jackson as just a spoiled brat with a guardian angel and entirely too many weapons, but now he was slowly seeing the courier as dangerously self-aware.  Beyond Jackson’s charm and humor and sweet molasses voice was someone calculating and intricate, he was sure of it.  Vulpes curses his own ineffectiveness for not noticing it earlier.  The courier probably could’ve made a good frumentarii.  Additionally, the more Vulpes interacted with Jackson, the more he obsessed about him.  Vulpes formed excuses to follow him through the wastes and explain this fixation to himself, to Caesar, writing it off as responsible exposure to the figureheads of Mojave politics.  After all Jackson was essentially the Florida of 2281 American political determination. 

 

Vulpes still has no idea what the courier’s endgame is, though.  All he knows is for whatever the reason this courier was going to dramatically affect the future of New Vegas.  And as much as it frustrated Vulpes, despite Jackson being only tolerated by Legion as a whole, Caesar demanded the courier remain alive. 

 

 _Alive.  Caesar didn’t say anything about being beaten, maybe lightly crippled.  Someone needs knock this courier down a few pegs and it may as well be a seasoned Legion warrior_ , Vulpes thinks to himself.

 

After the amount of time it takes for the frumentarii to swallow his pride, he returns to the bar.  Swiftly, he reaches across the counter to grab Jackson by the hem of his buttoned shirt and pulls in close enough that they’re sharing the same flammable breath.  Up this close Vulpes notices the courier’s right iris looks more dilated than the other but it might be a drunken trick of the eyes.

 

“Hear me, profligate,” Vulpes growls, “The second, the **second** you side with Mr. House you will be as disposable as a woman in our camps and I will not hesitate to slice that faithless neck to watch your blood pour onto what will soon be Legion soil.”

 

“You better back the fuck up, Red,” Jackson snarls, “No one fucking threatens me in my own fucking home.”

 

Tension was so thick in the air you could almost cut it with a knife and smear it on whatever the post-apocalyptic version of a bagel is.  Both size each other up, each daring the other to make a move.  The moment Vulpes releases Jackson, he acts.  With great speed the courier grabs Vulpes around the head and slams him face-first into the counter.

 

Vulpes skillfully recuperates and draws the hidden switchblade in his pocket to slash at Jackson, cutting a light laceration into his arm before leaping backwards.  The courier shrugs off the wound and laughs excitedly as he shoves his hands in his pockets to withdraw them armored in spiked knuckles.

 

“Thought you couldn’t kill me,” he sings, watching Vulpes rub his forehead.

 

“I’m not going to kill you,” he spits back, “I’m going to beat some respect into you like I’ve done to others a hundred times before!”

 

 _Oh man, this is going so much better than I could’ve hoped for_ , Jackson thinks to himself.

 

The courier picks up the half-empty bottle of whiskey and takes a long deep gulp before smacking his lips in satisfaction then chucks the bottle at Vulpes.  The frumentarii dodges it as the courier leaps over the counter for him.  Jackson takes a swing, which Vulpes avoids as well.  And another fist, another miss.  The courier kicks out and attempting to dodge it, Vulpes smacks against the wall and Jackson’s foot slams into the floor.  Vulpes slashes out and Jackson leaps backwards to avoid another cut.

 

“You’re entirely too predictable!” Vulpes almost laughs.  Jackson can tell they’re equally excited to finally spar.

 

The courier takes another swing at him.  This time Vulpes knocks it away and carves a shallow line in Jackson’s stomach with the knife.  When the courier buckles Vulpes sweeps one of his legs out from under him, causing him to fall to a kneel.  The courier meets Vulpes’ gaze, expecting him to say something but instead Vulpes just delivers a surprisingly heavy punch to his jaw and a tooth splits the inside of his lip. 

 

When Vulpes takes another swing, this time Jackson blocks it then spits a splatter of blood right into his face.  The frumentarii swears in Latin and stumbles backwards, wiping his eyes.  Jackson quickly rights himself to deliver his own punch to Vulpes’ gut and when the frumentarii doubles over, he follows it up with one more crushing blow to the face.  The hit strikes so well Vulpes spins into the wall. 

 

Before the courier can move in on him again, Vulpes twists around and hurdles his knife.  It twirls eighteen billion times in the air before imbedding itself so perfectly in Jackson’s shoulder, for a moment he forgets his wits. 

 

“Holy shit,” the courier breathes, mutually impressed and intimidated looking at the knife. 

 

He glances back at Vulpes who is poised and ready for a counterattack.  The side of his face that caught the spiked knuckles had four swelling puncture marks, each dribbling a little line of crimson down his cheek that mixed with the residue of the courier’s own mouth-blood.  Jackson yanks the blade out with a grimace, tossing it towards the couch several feet away before shedding his spiked knuckles to the same spot.  It was a good thing the courier’s body was too hardened from radiation, chems and a dirt nap for him to bleed out from knife wounds.

 

The courier wonders how this was going to end if neither was going to kill the other and both were too closely matched in durability.  At this point, Jackson remembers he fell asleep on chems last night planning the endgame for this interaction.  Internally, he swears at his own predictable incompetence and the sweet loosey-goosey sensations of abusing Med-X.

 

Jackson simply raises his fists, inviting Vulpes to do the same.  The frumentarii scoffs and mirrors the courier’s stance.  This time Vulpes strikes out first.  Jackson holds off the punch using his arms as a shield but the nimble frumentarii sneaks an uppercut behind the defense.  The courier recovers in time to knock a few of the frumentarii’s lighter hits away.  But for every three strikes Jackson derails, one chips away at his endurance.  Jackson lunges out and Vulpes preemptively tucks his knuckles before his face predicting a punch.  But instead the courier grabs two fistfuls of Vulpes’ suit jacket and yanks it over his head.  When Vulpes flails with vision obscured Jackson hockey punches him a few times.  Like a goddamn champ.

 

The frumentarii growls as he reorients himself.  Jackson strikes out too boldly.  Predicting this, Vulpes grabs his arm as he sidesteps into him, using his own momentum to swing the courier over his shoulder and slam him into the floor.  Before Jackson can get up, Vulpes coils his arm around his neck, flexing his muscles and suffocating him.

 

“Are you ready to beg for redemption?” Vulpes sneers.

 

Jackson pointlessly claws at Vulpes’ arm as the air in his lungs quickly diminishes.  The courier slams his head backwards into Vulpes’ and when the grip is lessened, he slips his fingers in to break the hold.  Before Jackson can scramble all the way to his feet, Vulpes lunges to grab his ankle and the courier crashes to the ground again. 

 

Vulpes tries to make another break for the neck but this time Jackson kicks out with the grace of a bucking Brahmin, sending Vulpes skidding across the floor to the bar.  The courier leaps to his feet to close the gap between them but before he can register what was happening, Vulpes flicks his hat into Jackson’s face and on reflex he tries to swat it away.  Jackson claps the hat out of his line of sight and Vulpes is suddenly on his feet right in front of him and punches the courier square in the face.

 

Thoroughly caught off guard by the crafty attack, Jackson staggers, holding his nose and attempts to give himself a few seconds to reorient but Vulpes is already taking another swing.  The courier stumbles backwards then drops to the floor hard like dead weight, dodging the swing, and delivers a brutal two-footed kick to the stomach.  The counter is so effective it sends Vulpes crashing into the wall of liquor and Jackson can’t help but cry out as he rights himself.

 

“Oh god no, not my booze!”

 

There was a bizarre effectiveness to Jackson’s style of fighting.  His resourcefulness and luck made up for his lack of grace and strategy.  In fact the two’s combat styles were nearly opposite of one another—Vulpes was reserved, disrupting and calculating while Jackson was loose, impulsive and off the cuff.*  Maybe it was the drinks from earlier, maybe it was just that Vulpes has never sparred with someone who fights like a six-foot spider monkey.  The frumentarii was beginning to feel humiliated in underestimating the courier’s ability, or perhaps overestimating his own.

 

Vulpes slowly gets to his feet again, chips of shattered glass falling off his shoulders as he rises.  He carelessly kicks the bottles away from his feet to clear a path.

 

“Hey don’t do that!” Jackson calls out, “You’re just making a bigger mess!  You think I got, like, a maid?  Nah!  I’m the one who has to clean this shit up!”

 

The frumentarii lunges brashly this time and suddenly the two find themselves mutual with fingers attempting to squeeze the other’s neck.  They try to choke each other, pivoting in a small circle and faltering slightly like a drunken dance.  For a moment, they both release their grips at the same time, still fixed in a seething gaze.  Both tilt their heads and slant their eyes just a bit.

 

Suddenly the two lock lips.  Hands glide over hair and shoulders as they kiss in equal aggression to their fight.  Feet suddenly clumsy clamber over one another as they stagger backwards towards the bar.  Vulpes pushes Jackson into the counter, lips still locked.  Residue of the last ten minutes leaves mouths seeped in blood and whiskey. 

 

The transition from combat to congress doesn’t happen seamlessly.  Breathing bated, Vulpes twists his thumb into the knife wound in Jackson’s shoulder.  The courier stifles a cry of pain and responds by grabbing the shotglass off the counter and smashes it upside Vulpes’ head.  Vulpes breaks the kiss to heavily backhand the courier across the face.  The two immediately resume kissing as they tumble and flip along the bar. 

 

“You disgust me,” Vulpes breathes.

 

“You ruined my suit,” Jackson responds and the two press their lips together again.

 

The frumentarii wraps his fingers around the courier’s neck once more and squeezes.  Jackson chokes as he gropes for the vase of flowers in the corner and whacks it against Vulpes’ spine a few times until he releases his grip.  The two resume kissing and tumble against the wall. 

 

They continue attempting to suck the air out of each other’s lungs, carelessly stumbling about and knocking all kinds of shit over.  Jackson pulls away and starts to ask, “Should we—”

 

“Yes,” Vulpes answers and they both jog to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes and blood in their wake.

 

They kiss again at the foot of the bed.  Jackson shoves the frumentarii onto the mattress forcefully and starts to undo his belt buckle.

 

“Hold on, what’s that?” Vulpes asks, pointing to the now exposed tattoos over his right arm.

 

“Huh?” he’s too distracted by the change of events (and blood loss) to care for answering, “The fuck does it look like?”  He undoes the fastening to his belt and crawls over Vulpes, attempting to kiss him again but this time he pulls away.

 

“It’s repulsive,” Vulpes hisses.

 

“Then don’t look at it, you relentless piece of Brahmin shit,” Jackson grabs Vulpes by the shoulders and flips him onto his stomach.  He squirms when Jackson tries to pull his pants down.

 

“Wait, stop,” he protests.

 

The courier halts to let Vulpes turn back, yet growls impatiently, “What?  I thought we were onto something, here.”

 

“I… I… don’t think this is a good idea,” he says cautiously.

 

“Oookay…” Jackson exaggerates, “Then don’t think.”

 

When he tries to resume their intimacy, Vulpes shoves his hands away, “No, this is wrong.”

 

“…He said with an erection,” Jackson teases and Vulpes quickly closes his legs to hide the growing tautness of his pants.

 

“No,” Vulpes shakes his head and pushes the courier off of him as his better senses finally overcome sexual appetite seeing the tattoos as a reminder to Jackson’s barbarianism, “This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.”

 

“You filthy little tease!  What _was_ supposed to happen then?” Jackson tries to hide his mounting irritation, thinking things were going just about as good as they could’ve gone minus his getting impaled in the shoulder, though even that he could’ve written off as foreplay.  “Did you think you were gonna recruit me to Legion and suddenly I’d be going on about the _ingenuity_ and _splendor_ of Caesar?” 

 

Though said with several layers of sarcasm, still a breathy moan leaves Vulpes’ lips.  Jackson scoffs in disbelief, pressing a tongue to the inside of his injured cheek as his lasciviousness quickly dissolves to frustration. 

 

“Wow… you dried up sliver of sunbaked gecko placenta… _That’s_ what turns you on?”  Perhaps it’s shame that causes Vulpes to look away without responding.  “You depress me… you know that?” said matter-of-factly.  Jackson waits for Vulpes to contest yet he doesn’t.  “Right,” the courier pats his knees and slides off the bed back onto his feet, “Well I’m not about to incorporate Caesar into my sex life to indulge this creepy Stockholm syndrome of yours, plus you talked shit about my ink and I _may_ have lost too much blood to sustain an erection anyways so… maybe you should just go.”

 

“Wait, I—”

 

“Fuck off,” the courier is already threading his belt back on.  He looks back to Vulpes but he isn’t moving an inch.  Jackson gestures to the front door angrily.  “You ain’t gonna to recruit me, you ain’t gonna do the wasteland rodeo with me and Mr. House ain’t gonna get any deader today, so I think we’re done here!” 

 

Vulpes slowly gets back to his feet, eyeing the courier’s change in attitude.  It’s not like either of them was, as the old world folk used to say, _DTF_ anymore, yet both still felt some kind of offended to the other’s sudden disinterest.  Maybe it was the alcohol seduced senses.  Also blood loss and face-punching has been known to make people surly and mixed up.

 

Vulpes exits the bedroom but slowly turns back to face the courier, “This… took a left turn…”

 

“It took exactly four and now we’re back to where we started,” the courier nods in obviousness and makes a shooing motion one would make to a pesky canine, “Buh-bye.”

 

“Let me explain the—”

 

“You don’t need to!” Jackson finally yells, anger besting him, “You’re just another brainwashed Legion soldier who never once thought for himself.  I bet you don’t even really support Legion or Caesar; you probably just learned your allegiance to survive this miserable little existence you call a life…  Also you just can’t choke a dude if you’re not planning on having sex with him—guys have been using fights as an avenue to homoeroticism for, I don’t know, I want to say it goes back to the first gay amoebas?”  Jackson takes a sharp inhale and sighs.  “…You know what?”  He scoffs with incredulity, still seething, “This is my fault for expecting you to be anything else.  I should’ve never taken it this far…” he sighs again raggedly.  “Just… just go already.”

 

Vulpes swallows a dry lump in his throat.  This wasn’t the impression he wanted to give the courier.  Legion certainly came first for the loyal frumentarii but the courier’s brutal observation still wounds.  He breathes hoarsely, “Jackson…”

 

When he hears his name the courier puffs up in rage and points to the door one last time as he roars with the decibel and ferocity of a mother Deathclaw, “OUUUUT!”

 

Finally, Vulpes obeys.  He picks his few articles of shed clothing from the floor and takes the elevator out without ever looking back at the courier.  

 

Truth be told, Jackson was quickly developing feelings for Vulpes and viewed the frumentarii’s loyalty to Legion and Caesar as competitors to his heart.  That’s always the trouble with falling for a soldier.  And even for an emotionally stalwart character like Jackson, rejection can still hurt enough to lash out defensively.  And yeah, also blue balls is a thing.

 

 

* * *

**Part V:   Guess Things Happen That Way**

Thoroughly off-put by his kerfuffle with Vulpes, Jackson attempted to continue his Mojave affairs convinced business would draw his mind away.  But the stench of the sour note the encounter ended on was quickly steeping through all of the Mojave in every place he looked.  He saw a half-eaten coyote lying face-down in an irradiated puddle and thought of Vulpes’ sui generis allure.

 

After just a few days of attempting to get over it, Jackson fled the Mojave like an uninsured pre-war driver dipping from a hit and run.  He told himself now was a good a time as any to chase that radio signal to Zion but in actuality he just wanted to get away from Vulpes knowing the skillful frumentarii was likely still watching him through the wastes.  Before Jackson departed the Mojave, he cursed Vulpes under his breath one more time. 

 

Vulpes watched from afar when Jackson entered that cave up north.  Even though Vulpes saw the courier leave, he initially kept a lonely vigil optimistically anticipating his possible return.  The wasteland is a dangerous place.  Vulpes knew death was a possibility for anyone, even the seemingly immortal phoenix of a courier.  So after just a week Vulpes abandoned his watch over the cave and returned to his other Legion tasks.  When Caesar asked the frumentarii for fresh news of the courier, Vulpes wasn’t sure how to answer. 

 

After six weeks, Vulpes finally wrote Jackson off as dead.  Reminding himself they never had much of a relationship in the first place, Vulpes tamped down the swelling emotions in favor of his role as a frumentarii.  The battle for Hoover Dam was drawing ever nearer and Vulpes was wise enough to know his attention was better spent on preparations rather than lament for a man who spat in his face and told him to fuck off.  Still, he replayed the memories from the Lucky 38 with bittersweet fondness.

 

The two neither saw nor heard from each other again for a few months.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Easter Eggs and Notes**

* The Earth’s circumference is about 24,901 miles or 40,075 kilometers.

* Jackson’s fighting style is inspired by Zui Quan, a Chinese style of martial arts that imitates the fluidity of a drunkard.


	2. I Would Like To See You Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Wanderer" is a long-winded narrative of complex romance in the Mojave told through the exploits of one guitar-wielding jokester.
> 
> Male Courier Six, Jackson Sims, is an insolent musical wanderer with a moral ambiguity and lack of allegiance. After crucifying Benny, Jackson is approached by Vulpes Inculta and the two push and pull each other in a game of egos thinly veiling their sexual tension as political discourse plagues the land.

* * *

**Part VI:   Come In, Stranger**

When Jackson at long last returned to the Mojave, he did so undetected.  It wasn’t until Mr. New Vegas made a passive report about the courier’s homecoming to the Strip did Vulpes begin searching again with guarded hopefulness.  For several days he traveled the wastes visiting the courier’s old stomping grounds until he spotted Jackson in Novac. 

 

 

From a distance the frumentarii watches Jackson through binoculars under the night sky, feeling a tidal wave of relief upon confirming the courier was still very much alive… also a bit tanner.  The relief quickly fades, however, when Vulpes remembers how the two left things and debates what to do when he sees Jackson leaning on the railing of the motel, smoking a cigarette and staring in his general direction.

 

He’s so far away, the courier could be looking at anything, or nothing even.  But it sure did look like he had somehow spotted the frumentarii behind his cover.  Was he getting sloppy maybe?  Or just desperate?  After a few minutes, Jackson takes one last tug of the cigarette then flicks the butt into the pavement below.  He stiffly holds his hand up like the first time he caught a gawking shadow in the wastes.  He then retires to his motel room, though leaves the door open.  Vulpes wavers, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he debates what to do.  It did seem like an invitation.  Against his better judgement, he slips into Novac to meet the courier once again.

 

A timid knock on the open door.  Vulpes stands in the doorway, partially blocking out the incoming moonlight and Jackson lifts his head to the sound.  The frumentarii is rightly wearing his civilian disguise knowing Legion-hating best friend forever Boone was currently on watch in town.  Jackson is sitting at the desk cleaning the valves to his power fist as the radio plays softly in the corner.  He merely glances at Vulpes before returning his gaze to his weapon.  Vulpes notices Jackson’s guitar perched in the corner.  Sleek black and framed with silver.*

 

“You just knocked… That’s kinda weird,” Jackson says.  Vulpes neither speaks nor moves and Jackson lifts his head again to glance him over.  The courier passively gestures to the couch along the wall.  “Well… come in then.”

 

Vulpes sits on the couch and what follows is a long stubborn silence.  Many thoughts being thunk but no words being spunk… I mean spoken.  Two prideful and powerful beasts juxtaposed with the awkward timorousness of schoolyard virgins.  In an effort to break the tension, Vulpes speaks.

 

“You were gone for a long time,” he says in obviousness.  In the corner the radio plays _Heartaches by Number_ and Vulpes quietly curses the timing of his statement.  The apposition is not lost on Jackson though he makes no comment on it.

 

“Yeah,” the courier replies simply, “Anything new with Legion and NCR?”

 

“You wish to discuss politics?” Vulpes questions.

 

“Noo…” Jackson sighs, bluff called.  “This is a longshot but did you by chance water Benny while I was gone?”

 

“No…” says Vulpes with some concern, “He died a while ago…”

 

“Ahh, damn… I mean, good!” Jackson shakes his head.  Another pause.  “Did you think I was dead?”

 

“Reasonable assumption.”

 

“I guess you haven’t learned much from stalking me in the wastes then.”

 

“Where did you go?”

 

Jackson glances at Vulpes, “Utah.”

 

“Oh?” there’s genuine surprise in Vulpes’ voice and Jackson remembers the frumentarii is originally from Utah.

 

“Yup.  Bighorner blood rusts up my gauntlet like no one’s business.  I used abrexo cleaner to get it out but it barely did anything and now the thing just smells like I angrily fisted a sheep.”

 

 “You’re always joking around,” Vulpes frowns a little.  The frumentarii was quietly hurt that the courier would go to such literal lengths to avoid him.  Hard not to be offended when someone fucks off hundreds of miles away to some gross canyon just to get away from you. 

 

Jackson finally sets the power fist down and turns in his seat to face Vulpes, “So…”

 

The hotel door is still open and the awkward atmosphere permeating the room is so intense it nearly wafts to the nostrils of on-watch Boone in the dinosaur mouth across the way.

 

“Look, I just want to say something,” Vulpes starts, shifting a little in discomforted anticipation of what was coming next, “I thought about what you said at the Lucky 38 but… I don’t think you have any right criticizing me like that.  Yeah, perhaps the only reason why I’m Legion is because I was never given a choice otherwise but, well, this is just who I am now.  I’m dedicated to Caesar and I’m fine with that.  You’re the one with the problem.”

 

Jackson’s eyebrows raise in surprise then quickly lower as he exhales, “I gotta to be honest with you, Red...  That was just a godawful apology.” 

 

Though he’d be reluctant to vocalize the thought, the courier already forgave Vulpes for his mindless allegiance to a man he thought of as deplorable in both ideology and fashion choice.  Events in Zion helped the courier understand context and more specifically, how a young Vulpes amid his decimated clan would’ve stood no chance without compliance to Legion.  Respecting this, the courier had come to see the frumentarii as simply naïve and ill-fated.  Though it still bothered him to have to compete for Vulpes’ attention and know he’d never be able to really win.

 

“Well,” the courier starts, “I _may_ have been a little hasty in my judgement of you… I know now that rivalry and fellowship tends to bring out the worst in people.  And at the end of the day what matters isn’t the color of the armor you wear but your character…  Though you did raze an entire town and that _is_ kinda fucked up…  But, err, anyways.  Follower or not, Legion or other, daddy issues or no, you’re… um… you’re _fine_.”

 

Vulpes lets Jackson stew in his own emotional discomfort for a bit until he lets out a genuine chuckle, “Well that couldn’t have been easy for you to say.  I mean it was clumsy and forced but so are you…” 

 

Another pause.

 

“Let me see it,” Vulpes breathes.

 

Jackson laughs in incredulity, “My cock?  I don’t think we’re quite there.”

 

“No, you unrelenting ass,” Vulpes knits his eyebrows, “Your tattoos.”

 

“Oh…” Jackson is a little disappointed, “Yeah, okay I guess.”

 

The courier stands to shed his shirt, revealing yet again the tattoos ordinarily hidden beneath his clothes.  Vulpes timidly rises to brush his fingers against the ink in quiet rumination.  On Jackson’s right shoulder is a design of a charred cracked human skull resting on two crossed pistols.  Circumscribing the skull is a thin green wreath and at the top of the design is an elegant ribbon that reads ‘ _Don’t Tread on Me_ ’.*  Beneath it on his forearm is a more cartoonish rendering of a brain, spinal column and heart stacked in a row, each emitting a vivid teal glow.  Threading itself between and around the body parts is a spiraled ribbon that reads ‘ _Follow the Yellow Brick Road_ ’.*  And there’s a new one since Vulpes last saw Jackson; a large tattoo that covered his left arm.  An elongated artiodactyl skull with mighty segmented horns that flank its sides, curling around the courier’s arm.  In bands behind the skull are dark geometric shapes and tribal symbols.  Below the skull is a ribbon that reads ‘ _Can’t Expect God to do All the Work_ ’.*  Vulpes rightly assumes the new tattoo was applied in Zion by a tribesman.  There’s also a small handful other smaller tattoos much less splendid that Vulpes would slowly discover—like a soaring REPCONN rocket on the back of Jackson’s right leg, black silhouettes of the legendary creatures he hunted across his left leg and an obnoxious smiling face of a Vault boy on his rear.

               

It isn’t until then he realizes the significance of the courier’s ink.  These were Jackson’s odes to his own adventures. 

 

“I suppose they’re rather… grand… in their own way…” Vulpes whispers with some hesitance, “Variants of battle scars earned not during combat but post-conquest.” 

 

There is another pause but this one wasn’t awkward.  For hundreds of years people have said absence makes the heart grow fonder.  In the dim orange light of the room amid the quiet sonata of Nat King Cole, suddenly the complications of their pasts melts away.  Eyes timidly glance at lips.  They push forward at the same time in a deep kiss both had been dreaming of for the past months.  This one, unlike the ones before, was tender and devoid of aggression.  Sincere.

 

Jackson fights the urge to laugh at the radio’s uncanny ability to capture the atmosphere of the room, but smirks just a bit, unable to fully contain himself.  Vulpes pushes his tongue between the gap in Jackson’s jaws.  Blind rosy salmon dance and cradle one another, swimming between teeth in rhythm to the music.

Jackson holds Vulpes surprisingly softly and leads him down onto the mattress like newlyweds on honeymoon.  It’s such a stark contrast of tone and emotion from their previous coquetry.  Vulpes lets out a shuttered breath when Jackson moves his mouth to his neck, sucking with just enough force to send a current of electrical impulses that travels down the frumentarii’s spine and curls into his groin.  The sound of pleasure brings Jackson to rise as well.  Clothes left on quickly become restrictive and cumbersome.  Jackson longingly grinds his hips into Vulpes’.  Each can feel the other’s erection begging for attention.

 

The courier gently works to unbutton Vulpes’ pants and the two shed the garment.  Jackson shamelessly admires the frumentarii’s cock before bringing his head down to its level.  A light tongue traces the contour of Vulpes’ cock from the base to the head.  When it slips along the sides of the tip, Vulpes shudders and a generous bubble of precum bubbles up and rolls down.  The courier teases just a bit; licking without taking it into his mouth and massaging his balls with coarse calloused hands, textured just enough to bring a pleasurable friction.  He wets his finger and strokes Vulpes’ hole before pushing in.

 

Jackson glances up and finds Vulpes watching with curiosity, his breath already ragged with anticipation.  The courier finally takes his cock into his mouth, leaving his fingers to massage the inside of the frumentarii.  A high octave moan escaped his lips.  Jackson works Vulpes’ erection, his tongue skillfully caressing as he bobs his head up and down, unconsciously matching the rhythm of the radio.  Greed and haste suddenly getting the best of him, Jackson sucks the head with some force and twists his fingers causing Vulpes to grab him by the hair and suppress another feminine gasp.  Jackson can no longer cope with the restriction of his own pants and breaks his downstairs kiss to undo his buckle.

 

Before he can undress there was a light rap at the door followed by a voice and both Jackson and Vulpes snap to identify the speaker.

 

“Hey, Jackson, saw your light was still on.  Wondering if you have an extra weapon repair kit I cou—Oh good god, no, I’ll come back later!”  Manny Vargas disappeared as suddenly as he appeared when he caught a brief glimpse of the carnality taking place, tossing his hands up to shield his eyes and nearly falling backwards over the railing. 

 

Jackson and Vulpes cautiously look back to one another and laugh.  Goddamn, Manny.  The courier slides off the bed to shut the door they forgot was left open. 

 

“I’ll just close this then…” he says playfully.

 

_The Legion slaver party was wiped out in a failed raid of the Bitter Springs refugee camp, with two armed civilians inflicting heavy Legion casualties.  One witness said—_

“And I’ll just turn that off…” Jackson chuckles a little as he turns off Mr. New Vegas’ radio report.

 

Right now there are no factions, no allegiances, no missions.  Just two people spitting in the face of traditional romance.  No wasteland, no war, no more goddamn Manny.  That’s the beautiful thing about intimacy and romance—it mollifies the world away, if just for a short time.  In this moment nothing exists but pleasure and this room.

 

“Come back to me…” Vulpes coos and gestures to draw Jackson back to the bed. 

 

The courier slips his trousers down just enough to let his erection pop out like a spring and strokes it a few times as Vulpes watches.  The two briefly compare sizes.  Jackson leans over the bed again and kisses Vulpes deeply.  They rub up against one another as hands glide over skin with some restraint.  Jackson breaks the kiss again.

 

“I’m going to—” Jackson starts.

 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Vulpes nods knowing the courier was alluding to roles of giver and receiver.

 

Jackson tilts his cock to the frumentarii, “Could you—?”

 

“Yeah.”  Vulpes sits up, shedding his jacket and unbuttons his shirt before scooting up-close to Jackson’s erection.

 

As if tasting an unfamiliar food for the first time, Vulpes timidly brings his face close enough to smell the tang of what happens when you run around in the buttfucking hotass desert all goddamn afternoon only to wash up in a grimy bathtub that’s nearly three hundred years overdue for a thorough cleaning.  But Vulpes feels little more than enthusiasm and greedily pushes his face into Jackson’s cock, licking it without strategy or technique.  On instinct, Jackson tilts his head back to the stimulation but forces himself to gaze down to watch Vulpes work his erection.

 

 _There’s something especially salacious about looking down at a high ranking Legion as he hungrily goes to goddamn town on my profligate cock_ , Jackson thinks to himself, _Wait, did I just call myself a profligate?_

 

When Vulpes thoroughly excites and lubricates Jackson’s erection, the courier pushes Vulpes back down onto the mattress, a bit more forcefully than he intended.  Undeterred, Vulpes spreads his legs and arches his back, praying that the impudent courier wouldn’t make any comment to his lurid position.  Wisely choosing to keep his impertinent annotations to himself, Jackson positions his cock at Vulpes’ ready hole and brushes it against a few times.  Vulpes lets another moan escape his throat, this one like a purr.  In consideration to the frumentarii, Jackson pushes in slowly, carefully watching Vulpes’ face for clues.  As predicted, all Vulpes feels at first is discomfort.

 

Neither knows how experienced the other is.

 

Vulpes twists his face, eyes closed, and bites his lip waiting for feelings of pleasure to replace the odd pain.  He’s too tense and Jackson finds it hard to push all the way in.  The courier leans over the frumentarii and with his free hand runs is nails over the back of Vulpes’ head.  Suddenly, though not alarmingly, Jackson swiftly jerks Vulpes’ head to the side and bites his neck.  As he does so, he pushes the rest of his erection in and Vulpes can’t even begin to stifle a noise that was half-yell and half-moan.

 

“Augh-ahh...!  Ahh….. ahhhhhhh…. Oh god yesss…” sounds and mutters indicated Vulpes’ pain was gone and Jackson chooses a slow simple rhythm.

 

Whether it was the overwhelming stimulation or insecurity, Vulpes had kept his eyes closed throughout.  Which didn’t bother Jackson.  He took pleasure in studying the frumentarii’s reactions without risk of awkward eye-contact.  After a few minutes, Jackson wraps his arms around Vulpes’ hips and lifts them up a bit as he increases his speed, each thrust lingering at its apogee for just the right amount of time.  Vulpes’ fingers glide down his stomach to wrap around his own erection and begins to pump himself.  Finally he opens his eyes to notice the courier staring and instantly blushes a deep crimson despite the two being pretty fucking past the point of shame.  So Jackson chuckles a bit finding it endearing, which only makes Vulpes’ reddening spread to his ears.

 

As reassurance, Jackson gently takes Vulpes’ fingers and both hands work to stroke his erection.  But Vulpes still feels infelicitous embarrassment so Jackson pauses.

 

“Try it this way…” the courier says softly in response and quickly pulls out of Vulpes.  Surprised by the sudden absence of the courier’s cock, Vulpes lets out a little gasp.  Jackson hops onto the mattress next to Vulpes and lays on his back, “Up.”

 

Vulpes obediently climbs on top and positions himself over the courier’s erection.  It slips in much easier the second time.  In this position, Jackson’s cock easily taps a button that causes Vulpes to stifle a surprised moan.  Discovering that butt-button will surprise just about anyone—no believe me.  A lot of people don’t know it’s there, but it’s there...*  Instructions from Jackson come in two or three words.  Vulpes learns a comfortable pace, lifting himself up and down Jackson’s length as the courier achingly assists in moving his hips.  Vulpes’ eyes flutter down to the courier and indeed finds more comfort in this position. 

 

With one hand, Jackson kneads the meat of Vulpes’ rump and with the other strokes his erection.  The stimulation quickly grows to its climax but Vulpes attempts to suppress the urge to come, despite the courier’s approval to do so.  For part of a minute, each clenches their jaw, both combatting their rising impulse until neither can hang on any longer.  Jackson pulls out and quickly aims his cock as it explodes onto his own chest.  Simultaneously, Vulpes comes as well.  Semi-opaque warmness splatters all over Jackson’s bare torso and trickles down his sides.  Vulpes lets out one more ragged sigh and tips over, falling next to the courier in contented exhaustion.

 

A fleck of Vulpes’ cum dribbles down Jackson’s cheek and the courier wipes it away with his middle finger.  He licks the cream and finds it to be as salty as the frumentarii’s own personality.  He points to the dresser in the corner and asks Vulpes to grab a towel.

 

After cleaning up, the two lean back into the mattress again with gratified sighs.  For another few minutes the two revel in their glow until the dismal world swims back into their peripheral.  Jackson grunts as he scoots up to sit against the headboard and lights a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand.  He absentmindedly offers one to Vulpes who shakes his head.  For a while longer they maintain their silence.

 

“So who was that guy?” Vulpes finally breaks the quiet.

 

“Oh god, that’s right,” Jackson presses a palm to his forehead remembering they were walked in on but laughs a little, “That was Manny Vargas… I don’t think he knows who you are.  Probably didn’t even see your face… I’ll give him fifty repair kits if he promises never to barge in my room again…”  Vulpes returns the chuckle, evoking a flutter in the courier’s chest.  Rare to hear the joyless frumentarii delight; even if he was evil enough that his laugh probably made angels cry.  Jackson’s eyes flutter upward in consideration, “I think… I think it might actually be rude of me to barge into other people’s homes.  I guess I’ve never been on the receiving end of that.  Huh...” 

 

Jackson thinks deeply on this matter and continues to tug on his cigarette for a moment before dismissing the thought as he rests the roll in the stone ashtray by the bed. He then leans over to grab his guitar resting against the wall. 

 

“Oh no… are you going to play something?” Vulpes asks, dreading the answer.  _Jackson doesn’t even realize he’s a caricature of himself_ , Vulpes thinks.

 

“Yes and you’re going to sit there and listen politely,” Jackson says flatly.

 

Jackson adjusts his position lying against the headboard and futzes with the pegs, making sure the strings were in tune.  He starts to play softly.  Wasn’t a show.  Seemed more like a comfort thing; something he would’ve done whether or not he had company.  Vulpes figures he’s practiced by the way his fingers glided across the frets and strings without him really looking.

 

_“She said… come in, stranger, I know you’re weary from all your miles… Just sit right there in your easy chair, And tell me about the places you’ve been… How long it’ll be before you leave again… I hope it’s a long long while… Said… come in, stranger…”_

 

Vulpes doesn’t have the mind to appreciate music and Jackson’s song is way too somber western.  But he lets Jackson play anyways.  Mostly out of curiosity and amplified patience from the recent orgasm.  Surprisingly honeyed cowboy voice.  Not what Vulpes expected from the courier’s drawled speech.

 

Eventually the frumentarii reaches a cautious hand out to brush the hair from the right side of Jackson’s face exposing the grisly scar of Benny’s bullet.  And it isn’t until then Vulpes confirms that that right eye’s iris was in fact permanently dilated and wonders if that’s why the courier usually wore sunglasses.  His gaze wanders to the familiar scar in the courier’s shoulder from their fight at the Lucky 38.  Suddenly a roadmap of partly-healed injuries appears on Jackson.  Between the scars and tattoos, Vulpes silently wonders just how many stories are branded into the courier’s body.

 

_“She said… come in, stranger, And won’t you listen to my plea… Stay long enough so that the one I love, Ain’t a stranger to me.”_

 

Jackson lets the last note hang in the room for a bit.  He plucks his cigarette and pulls on it several times before stubbing it out in the ashtray.  What a strange song.  Vulpes can’t tell if playing it was meaningful in the moment or it was just a mindless activity Jackson does.  Odd, though. 

 

Eventually Jackson returns his guitar to the wall.  He gingerly though a little awkwardly traces his fingers over the frumentarii’s hair and kisses him lightly on the forehead.

 

“Sleep,” the courier whispers—either an explanation of what he was about to do or an offer to allow the frumentarii to spend the night.  The two fall asleep together.

 

 

In the morning Jackson awakes alone, though not at all bothered by Vulpes’ silent departure.  They’ll surely see each other again. 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Easter Eggs and Notes**

* Jackson’s guitar is a Martin D-35 acoustic, which was a commemorative make modeled from Johnny Cash’s favorite black Martin guitar he played on stage for nearly 20 years.

* Jackson’s pistols skull tattoo is tribute to Gun Runner’s Arsenal DLC

* Jackson’s body parts tattoo is tribute to Old World Blues DLC.  And, you know, that whole thing referenced 'Wizard of Oz'.

* Jackson’s artiodactyl tattoo is of course tribute to Honest Hearts DLC.  _‘Can’t expect God to do all the work’_ was said by Joshua Graham.

* That button is called a prostate and it’s pretty great.

 


	3. Happiness is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Wanderer" is a long-winded narrative of a complex romance in the Mojave told through the exploits of one guitar-wielding jokester.
> 
> Time marches on after Jackson and Vulpes' reunion in Novac. The two maintain their relationship in between tending to their own professional affairs and for a while everything is simple. However simple rarely lasts and it's only a matter of time before the two are forced to confront one another on politics of the Mojave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comedic fluff chapter, no drama.  
> It’s my first time posting fanfic so please be sure to let me know if you like it, or hate it! Ask if you got any questions.

 

* * *

**Part VII:   Season of My Heart**

It’s mid-afternoon when Jackson leaves his suite at The Tops.  Today’s especially hot and the courier chooses to venture through the coming night to avoid excessive heat.  He walks through the slummy part of Freeside when a hand darts out from an alleyway to pull him in. 

 

Preparing for a fight, Jackson raises his fist but quickly lowers it when he identifies the owner of the hand.  It’s, of course, the frumentarii.

 

“Oh it’s you,” Jackson exhales a breath of relief, “You know there are less alarming ways of getting my attent—”

 

Vulpes swiftly silences him with his lips and Jackson’s eyes flutter closed in contentment.  Tongues fence one another, hands desperately tug at clothes and hips achingly press against each other with some friction.

 

“Mhmm, how long has it been, cactus flower?” Jackson whispers playfully.

 

“Two years, twenty-six days, thirty-two minutes,” Vulpes breathes.*

 

“You just made that up.”

 

“I did.  We saw each other Tuesday.”

               

“Damn right we did.”

 

Jackson pushes against Vulpes, ignoring the unwelcomed extra heat of the frumentarii’s body and presses him to the alley wall as they kiss.  Vulpes’ throaty moan vibrates in Jackson’s mouth.  The burning passion of the liaison is incomparable to any kind of candid romance.  Vulpes tilts his head away to speak.

 

“Right now,” he insists.

 

Jackson glances around the alleyway, “This alley is pretty gross…  I don’t know if tetanus is still a thing but if it is, I bet it exclusively lives here.  There’s a dusty patrol tower ‘round the corner?”

 

“That’s fine, let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Jackson slams Vulpes up against the wall in the tower in vehement passion. 

 

The two made record time getting to the abandoned patrol shack nearby Cerulean Robotics; the same place that was stage for the Kings' showdown with NCR.  The door was jammed shut and Vulpes initially tried to pry it open with a machete.  But Jackson impatiently kicked the door in with the strength of ten moderately inebriated couriers.  Inside are a few desks and chairs, all caked in a layer of dust that could easily be years old. 

 

Grime and the light odor of dried blood mattered very little in the moment as the two flounder about with lips locked.  The courier’s sunglasses jab into the frumentarii’s temple.  Vulpes rips them off and carelessly tosses them to the dirty floor.

 

“Hey, careful!” Jackson protests, “Those are my Lucky Shades!”

 

“You seem to be getting plenty lucky without them…” Vulpes mentions suggestively.

 

“Hah!  Nice one!” Jackson enthusiastically raises his hand in the air and waits for Vulpes expectantly.  “High-five!”

 

Vulpes slims his eyes, “Absolutely not.  Don’t you remember the last time you tried that?”

 

“Oh yeah…” Jackson chuckles, sheathing his hand, “Ya faked me out then smacked me in the face real hard.”

 

It had only been about two weeks since the pair’s first dalliance in Novac.  Between Vulpes’ job as active frumentarii and Jackson’s role as protagonist, their rendezvous came sporadically; basically whenever Vulpes happened to sneak up on Jackson.  For reasons that are pretty obvious, their intimacy needed to be kept, as the pre-war folk used to say, _on the DL_.  But the unpredictability and clandestine nature of their tryst only excited them further. 

 

“Bend over the desk,” Jackson instructs with a glimmer of voraciousness in his eyes.

 

Vulpes begins to disrobe, “I want to see you.”

 

Jackson laughs though Vulpes isn’t sure at what.  “It’s stupid hot today; I don’t want any extra skin-on-skin contact.”

 

“Such a romantic,” Vulpes rolls his eyes.

 

“Come on, all hands on desk!” the courier grins.

 

Jackson spins Vulpes around and pushes him onto the furniture, exciting a puff of dust that catches the afternoon light seeping through the cracks in the boarded windows.  Vulpes wriggles under the courier’s grip just enough to feign displeasure.  The clink of Jackson’s belt buckle causes Vulpes to knowingly shiver in anticipation and he lets out a pleading moan.  The courier leans over the waiting frumentarii, turning his head to kiss him deeply.  Jackson slips his cock between Vulpes’ bare legs, rubbing down his ass and against his balls teasingly.  Vulpes insists on skipping straight to the, uh, _good stuff_.

 

Jackson eases in slowly but the hungry frumentarii pushes backwards eagerly and they both let out a shuddered breath at the same time.  It had only took a few sessions for the frumentarii’s ass to be trained for the courier’s girth.  Jackson grabs Vulpes by the hips and rocks him back and forth with just enough force to make it seem like it were a chore. 

 

Throaty noises of pleasure cut with the repetitive clinks of metal fastenings swinging back and forth hum through the little tower.  Beads of sweat in the afternoon heat fall to pepper the varnish of grime over the floor.  Fresh air just beyond the doorframe refuses to pervade the mustiness of the unused room though the pair seems unfazed.

 

“Dicere…” Vulpes breathes.  _Speak_.  One of the few Latin words Jackson had finally bothered to picked up on.

 

“R-really?  I thought you preferred I be quiet… Well okay…” the courier clears his throat a little before dropping his voice to a seductive whisper, “Um.  I thought about you the other day when I masturbated in the Legion safehouse…”

 

Vulpes sighs, “…I-I don’t even know what I expected…”

 

“I just can’t dirty talk… don’t know why...  By the way I wouldn’t lay in the third bed from the left unless you want to get pregnant.  That’s where I always go to fire the Howitzer.”

 

“Howitzer?  Really?”

 

“Yeah, well, you know.  It’s big and girthy and goes off with a bang!”

 

“…Some might say it’s been untouched for centuries.”

 

“Ohhhhh… ouch.”

 

Jackson pushes Vulpes’ shoulders down so he’s flat against the desk with his rump in the air.  The courier slips his arm around to grab Vulpes’ bobbing erection and invites a drawn out purr. 

 

The courier eventually hastens his pace and traces a fingernail over the frumentarii’s spine.  Such pale skin for a desert dweller.  Vulpes shivers like a dog in the rain, and exhales a yearning breath of approval... possibly also like a dog in the rain.  The moan feeds right into Jackson’s cock and the courier lets out his own whimper, attempting to stifle it by biting his lip.

 

“I’m gonna…” he winces.

 

“No!” Vulpes demands, “Not yet!”

 

The frumentarii reaches to grab the base of Jackson’s cock, squeezing tight and the two dislodge from one another.  Jackson stutters a series of discomforted noises and swears at the frumentarii.

 

“You little shit,” he grumbles, soothing his erection as it twitches in sensitivity from the edge away from orgasm.

 

“Me?” Vulpes scoffs turning to face the courier, “Is it too much to ask you to last more than five minutes for once?”

 

“Whoa, that is **not** a very nice thing to say…  Also totally untrue!”

 

Vulpes places his hands on the courier’s shoulders and forces him to drop to his knees. 

 

“You’re going to get me off before I let you come,” Vulpes points his erection to Jackson who smiles happily like a monkey being given a banana.  A nice throbbing banana.  Hah!

 

The courier takes Vulpes into his mouth with enough enthusiasm to draw his own hands away from his deferred cock.  This was a welcomed sight—the ordinarily obnoxious loud-mouth courier momentarily silent and focused.  The frumentarii runs his fingers through the courier’s hair, tracing the contours of his skull with untrimmed fingernails.  Vulpes pulls the hair away from Jackson’s forehead to admire the scar deviating his eyebrow.  He briefly thinks about how none of this would be happening if the courier was never shot in the head, or if he hadn’t survived the bullet.

 

Jackson’s skillful tongue steadily works Vulpes’ cock to its apex.  Vulpes closes his eyes in concentration to hold on a few moments longer.  He pulls out of Jackson, kicks the courier backwards and comes hard.  The shot hits Jackson’s knee and trails a nice even line in the floorboards between the two.  Vulpes sighs deeply and stumbles backwards to fall into the well placed moldy chair by the desk.

 

“Make a show of it,” the frumentarii aptly instructs like the lazy Roman emperors whose zeitgeist inspired the aesthetic of Legion’s faction.

 

The courier grins and lifts himself up enough to give Vulpes a good view as he strokes himself.  He steadies himself with one hand behind him and moans for the frumentarii’s scrutinizing gaze.  It only takes a few minutes for Jackson to come.  His seed makes an X across Vulpes’ line.  But the real treasure is friendship.

 

* * *

 

Some minutes later the two sit on the deck of the tower.  It was still only late afternoon but like always, the desert heat clung stubbornly to the day until the sun would dip far below the horizon.  There’s no wind today so the air is stiff and sounds both near and far reverberate more audibly than usual.  The courier hugs his guitar in his lap as he extracts a pack of cigarettes and absentmindedly offers one to the frumentarii like he did every time they finished fucking.

 

“No, stop doing that,” Vulpes says flatly.

 

“Is’a habit…” Jackson says through lips occupied lighting the roll.

 

For a little while Jackson smokes as the two sit quietly looking out into the slums of Freeside, too content to be bothered by the muckiness of it or the thirsty gamblers migrating to the Strip as afternoon turns to night.  The air’s so still, Vulpes can hear the soft crackle of embers in Jackson’s cigarette.  He admires the way the smoke sways around Jackson’s head like a musty halo.

 

Dusk slowly falls and the sky turns a brief yet vibrant orange as Vulpes listens to Jackson pick at his guitar, lackadaisically singing a song about the weather or nature or something dumb like that.

 

_“The seasons come, the seasons go… We get a little sunshine, rain and snow… Just the way… it was planned, to be… But there’s no seasons… in my heart, While you play… the leading part… Because the flow-ers will bloom… eternally…”_

 

Unfortunately for Vulpes, after sex Jackson always plays a tacky cowboy song that _almost_ captures the current atmosphere.

 

Vulpes appreciates Jackson in his predictable post-shag calmness.  The heat of the day had the courier wearing a sleeveless shirt that exposed the ink staining his skin.  Vulpes makes a little noise thinking about the tattoos, the stories that birthed them.  It certainly took him a while to warm up to it.  Whether it was his own opinion or the conditioning of Legion ideals, at first he found the tattoos to be hideously barbaric.  But the more he saw them, the more he gained an admiration for them, or maybe just admiration for the courier’s perilous existence. 

 

Vulpes thinks deeply on it as Jackson plays.  Most people in the wastes live fairly unremarkable lives.  The courier seems fantastical in comparison.  Almost as if he’s the star in some kind of epic tale of adventure.  Well, either that or Jackson is just a brilliant liar and imaginative story teller.  Though Vulpes did at one point comb Jackson’s head while he slept and found a faded scar along his hairline and bifurcating his scalp—the scar Jackson claimed he got from an involuntary lobotomy performed by a malfunctioned Auto-Doc with a “ _weary Bones personality_ ”… whatever that means.  The surgical scars are there, maybe not confirmative proof Jackson was butchered by floating brains or invented a cyberdog named Roxie, but they prove something…  At the very least, they verify Jackson has been places.  But still, Vulpes can never be exactly sure where the courier has been and what he’s seen; and without proof or context, a lot of what he says sounds like nonsense.   _“Doctor O is Doctor Venture!”_ —Vulpes can’t even begin to understand what that means.*

 

“So…” Jackson says a while after he finishes his song, “Tell me about yourself… I know it’s not the most dignified thing to say two weeks into a fuckfest, but I feel like I don’t really know much about you.  Where you came from and all that…”

 

Vulpes glances at Jackson, cocking his head a bit before returning his gaze outward to nothing in particular.  He thinks about the ridiculous stories that inspired the courier’s tattoos and feels lackluster in comparison.  “There’s not much to tell…”  Jackson doesn’t remark, instead he waits for the frumentarii.  After a few seconds Vulpes follows up. “I believe you already heard about my history from Caesar, himself.”

 

“Well… I want to hear it from you.”

 

Vulpes shoots the courier a suspicious glance, “I was born in Utah, joined Legion and eventually earned the rank of frumentarius.”

 

“No one’s life is just one sentence long, Vulpes,” smiles Jackson.

 

[SUCCEEDED] _Speech check passed_

 

“Hmph,” Vulpes chalks that response up in his mental tally of Jackson’s most impressive remarks. 

 

 

So Vulpes reluctantly began to share bits of his life and eventually found the confidence to tell Jackson some more personal details, though still picked what he shared carefully.  Vulpes’ origins in Utah, some sparse memories of pre-Legion, his extensive training, the battles he had been a part of and so on.  Partway through Vulpes found it rather therapeutic to talk about himself.

 

Vulpes was pleasantly surprised at the courier’s ability to politely listen.  He was hushed, pensive, asked the occasional question but made no inane remarks like the frumentarii had come to expect.  Maybe it’s a little mean but Vulpes liked Jackson best when he was quiet like this—it seemed like the only time he was profoundly sincere.

 

After Vulpes shared as much as he cared to, Jackson gently puts his hand on the frumentarii’s knee and thanks him.  Vulpes thinks it maladroit—like the courier was mimicking something he saw someone else do.  Quirky, but not off-putting.  Jackson lights up another cigarette and Vulpes tentatively scoots closer to rest his head on his shoulder.  More commonly the two bickered and teased one another but every once in a while they drew calm and sentimental. 

 

* * *

 

Jackson flicks the burnt out roll to the ground when it’s spent.  Vulpes sits up craning his neck to the night sky and makes a frustrated noise attempting to read the stars concealed behind the dense glow of light pollution coming from the Strip. 

 

“It’s… 23:59,” Jackson says knowingly, checking the time on his Pipboy, “You have no idea how convenient this thing is.”*

 

“I should be off,” Vulpes gets to his feet and Jackson does the same, “I’m expected to be—“

 

“Shushhh shhhh…” smiling, Jackson clumsily presses his fingers to Vulpes’ lips and whispers, “Don’t talk… Just go…”

 

Vulpes shakes his head, hiding a smile and turns to leave.  The courier reaches out and gives him a nice slap across the ass, making a distinct noise of approval.

 

“Mhm-mhm!” the courier snaps his fingers, “Goddamn I got it good!”

 

“Ahh stop…” Vulpes turns back, blushing a bit, “…See you, Jackson.”

 

Vulpes takes a few quick steps back to the courier and kisses him on the cheek before leaving.  Jackson grins widely watching him go, pressing his fingers to the spot where he was kissed.

 

“Goodnight, goodnight…  Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be ‘morrow…” he breathes to himself.*

 

“What did you say?” Vulpes calls from the bottom of the tower.

 

“Nothing!” Jackson waves to him innocently.  Vulpes slants his eyes but walks off.

 

 

* * *

 

**Part VIII:   Tennessee Flat Top Box**

 

Another sparse break from active duty allowed Vulpes to track down Jackson again.  Sometimes when he went looking for the courier, he didn’t always find him.  The Mojave is big and Jackson is a true nomad; always moving, traveling light and rarely sleeping in the same place two nights in a row.  So Vulpes would make rounds through the settlements Jackson owns residence in, pass through the outposts where he bartered and if he was desperate, ask someone if they had seen him recently.  He was making a point to be more discrete.  Last time he was at the 188 Trading Post he asked Veronica if she saw Jackson lately.  She remarked this wasn’t the first time he asked her about the courier and made a very bold yet playful allusion to a tryst, to which Vulpes turned bright scarlet and decided never to return to that outpost again.

 

The times Vulpes was tasked with following the courier, he made notes of specific areas that were revisited.  When Jackson isn’t on a job or prospecting, he either spends time with people or wanders off alone doing stupid shit.

 

When Jackson is feeling social, he visits a vast multitude of his acquaintances and friends.  He’d keep Boone company in the dinosaur mouth, play pointless little competitive games with Veronica, learn about mechanical engineering of the old world from Raul the Ghoul, shoot the cultured shit with Arcade, indulge Lily’s sentimental brain damaged mind or drink heavily with Cass.  He’d stop by settlements like Red Rock Canyon, Nellis and Brotherhood just to say hello to people and occasionally playing his guitar for them.  Sometimes he would place bets at the Red Thorn, gamble on the Strip and watch shows at The Tops.  Occasionally he’s invited to play at The Aces, sometimes filling in for the Lonesome Drifter.  He also wasted entirely too much time attempting to teach ED-E how to beep in rhythm to a bassline, to absolutely no avail.  Vulpes finds it a little annoying how good the courier is with people.

 

When Jackson is feeling solitary, he slinks off to a number of places.  He would spend a lot of his free time lazing about on the Scavenger Platform with a fishing line in Lake Mead.  He didn’t often catch anything; mostly just drank and smoked and played guitar with his feet in the water like a post-apocalyptic Tom Sawyer.  Often times Jackson would simply find somewhere pretty outside and read pre-war books out of his endless library; his favorites being a partly eaten copy of _Romeo & Juliet_ and a better preserved autobiography from The Man In Black.  Sometimes he would go to Black Mountain and reactivate the broadcast tower just to be obnoxious across a much larger scale.  He’d make jokes and comment on things as if the whole empty desert were his audience.  Neil finds it occasionally amusing though.

 

It took nearly five months but eventually Vulpes discovered the courier’s little sanctuary.  So this time Vulpes travels knowingly to a little cove in the northwest.

 

It was about noon when Vulpes made it to the foothills between the edge of the Mojave and the mountains to the west.  This was Jackson’s hideaway—Vault 22.  Specifically the grassy lawn to Vault 22.  Ever since he found the place he’d been returning to lie in the flowers.  As far as Vulpes knew, this was the only place in the Mojave with lush plant life and Jackson liked it for reasons beyond the frumentarii’s understanding.  As Vulpes begins to hike up the hill, he hears Jackson singing before he sees him.

 

_“She’s spreading her wings for a journey… She’s going to leave by and by… When the trumpet shall sound in the morning… She’ll rise up and go to the sky…”_

 

Vulpes hesitates.  He’s heard Jackson sing and play before but instead of interrupting, he waits for the rest of the song.  Vulpes doesn’t particularly care for music and normally found Jackson’s singing to be a little showy but he’s in a nice patient mood today.

 

_“When He cometh descending from the heavens… On the cloud that He writes in His word… I’ll be joyfully carried to meet Him… On the wings of that great speckled bird.”_

The last note hangs in the air until it’s carried away on a breath of wind.  Jackson lets out a contented sigh and leans back into the grass, squinting his bare eyes in the morning sun.  Welcomed but sudden shade blocks out the iridescence. 

 

“So you’re into this god character, huh?” Vulpes stands above looking down at the courier.  Jackson grins when he sees the frumentarii.

 

He sits up, still smiling, “If anything I like all the music the ideology inspired.”

 

A clever answer that makes Vulpes smile back. 

 

“I’m glad to see you again… You’re getting pretty good at finding me,” Jackson says.

 

“Well I am Caesar’s greatest frumentarii,” boasts Vulpes.

 

“Yes, god blessed you doubly, little soldier,” Jackson teases.

 

“Speaking of god… I’ve heard your broadcasts from Black Mountain.  The ones where you talk in a deep voice and introduce yourself as God.  And you tell everyone you’re going to smite them if they don’t immediately fornicate a cactus.”

 

Jackson guffaws at his own antics, “I’m pretty funny aren’t I?”

 

“You’re certainly assured enough for the both of us,” Vulpes quips.  Jackson shoots him a playful scowl and the frumentarii adds, “You know a man actually did it?”

 

Jackson spits another laugh, “What?  That’s too good!  I bet now when he takes a piss he leaks like a tin can on a gun range!”

 

“Actually he went septic,” Vulpes informs, “His wife begged us for healing powder.”

 

The courier pauses.  “He had a wife?”  He busts up laughing again.  “Hilarious!”

 

Vulpes quietly pulls out a small notebook and pencil from his pocket.  He flips the pages to a scoreboard with two fairly even columns— _Sociopath_ and _Just an Asshole_.  He silently marks another tally under the former column and pockets the book again.

 

Jackson reaches his hand out invitingly, “Speaking of fornicating cacti… shake off them needles and come kiss me, cactus flower.”

 

Vulpes rolls his eyes but leans down to kiss Jackson, pulling away a little early just to see the courier’s eyes flutter open in yearning.  At first Vulpes hated the pet name.  It’s an obvious reference to the frumentarii’s unfriendly exterior that heavily guards the little vulnerable spot within us all.  Too accurate a term of endearment for the frumentarii.

 

The courier softly strums his guitar as Vulpes admires him in the sea of green.  The Mojave wasn’t dead—there were plenty of plants, even some blossoms, but they were all scrawny mulch compared to what was here.  Given his faction affiliation, Vulpes saw enough red on a daily basis that the emerald plants seemed strangely foreign.  The courier looked at home here though.  Not far off a sight from a woodland monkey.  He sits and plays with bare feet that stroke the grass affectionately.  Among the courier’s things were a few books.  Vulpes pushes them to read the covers—an instructional for advanced bird watching techniques, a child’s Choose-your-own-adventure featuring a surprise dragon and a high-school calculus textbook with a lot of dicks drawn in it.  More than two hundred years after war heads devastated the globe, it can be difficult finding decent reading material.

 

“Have you ever seen this kind of plant life?” Jackson asks, his fingers reflexively still strumming.

 

“I’ve seen many diverse nature in my travels,” Vulpes answers.

 

Jackson looks to the frumentarii, “Have you ever felt it though?”  He grins and lifts one of his feet, “With your toes?”  He drops his gaze back to the fret board.  “I can’t even imagine how much green there must’ve been before the war… I’ve read a lot of books.  Seen a lot of pictures of the old world.  There used to be entire countries of rainforests!  All kinds of plants and bugs and animals, none mutated to gigantic proportions or inherited an appetite for human flesh… But I guess there’s a lot more great speckled birds around today than there used to be.”  He chuckles to himself solemnly.

 

Vulpes sits in the green.  He pulls his gloves off and runs his hands through the grass quietly.  The blades are sharper than he expected but it’s still a nice touch.  Much different from feeling the coarse repetitive texture of sand or dirt.  These plants are all energetic and lush.  Smell turgid with water and fertile with pollen.  He looks over to the courier again.

 

“You never told me where you learned to play that guitar,” he suggests.

 

Jackson smiles playfully and strums one loud chord, “You never asked.”

 

“So where did you learn?”

 

Jackson quietly rattles his fingers across the fret board without strumming the strings as he thinks, “Well, I taught myself…”  He glances at Vulpes.  “I know… not very interesting.  Lonesome Drifter’s got it right, though.  That’s why he gets the gigs **and** the girls.”

 

“Hmm…” Vulpes studies Jackson, “Really?  No story behind the guitar or your fixation on that old world musician?  Buck or Dollar or whatever his name is…?”

 

“Guess not.”

 

“It’s just that you have a story for everything…” Vulpes says a little wearily, “And no one just learns something so archaic without some personal re—”

 

Jackson jumps to his bare feet strumming his guitar loudly, _“Heeeeeyyyy get rhythm… when you got the blues, Come on get rhythm… when you got the blues……. Get a rock n’ roll feelin’ in your bones…._ ”  He sways his hips to the tempo.  _“Put taps on your toes and get gone, Get rhythm… when you get the blues.  Heyyy!_ ”  He shuffles through the grass riffing and dancing until Vulpes finally laughs and playfully swats at him.  Vulpes would be reluctant to admit it but he finds it very endearing that Jackson so often makes a fool of himself just to make the frumentarii smile.

 

“Alright,” Vulpes’ chuckle subsides, “I get it… Blah blah mysterious past, blah blah…”

 

“Well okay…” Jackson swivels his neck, “If you _reeeeally_ want to know about my history I’m afraid I can’t just _tell_ you... but…”

 

“Don’t say you can si—”

 

“I can sing it to you!” Jackson cries and rakes his fingers across the strings.

 

“Ugh… one day I’m going to smash that guitar,” Vulpes rolls his eyes as Jackson sits beside him.

 

Jackson cocks an eyebrow as he rests his guitar in a bed of flowers, “You do and I’ll destroy everything you hold dear, starting with Caesar and ending with myself.”

 

There’s a little pause before the two grin at one another and then kiss.  Nothing ignites their passion quite like half-sincere threats of violence, it seems.  Whatever, everyone’s got their thing.  Vulpes pushes deeper, his tongue inviting itself into Jackson’s mouth.  Surprised but not off-put, Jackson surrenders and lets the frumentarii push him into the meadow like it’s one of those stupid romance movies where a couple rolls around in the grass laughing like they got nothing goddamn better to do.  Vulpes hungrily starts to tug at the courier’s belt but is stopped.

 

“Whoa, hang on,” Jackson starts, “We can’t fuck around here… not in my special garden.”

  
“What about _my_ special garden?” Vulpes implies suggestively.

 

Jackson gasps, pressing a hand over his mouth, “My god that’s nauseatingly clever… But no.  This place is, like, sacred to me.”  He runs his fingers through the grass tenderly.  “You wouldn’t have sex in a church, would you?  Actually that sounds pretty hot…”  He reconsiders his allegory.  “You wouldn’t have sex in graveyard would you?  Ahh, that one is pretty tempting too… You wouldn’t have sex in… um… a… Oh!”  He snaps his fingers.  “You wouldn’t have sex in your special little Catholic Legion summer camp, would you?”

 

Vulpes grimaces a little suspiciously.

 

“Oh… you guys actually do fuck around at the Fort?  I just assumed the ground was sticky from of all the wanks of regrettable celibacy,” says Jackson, taken aback, “Wait… but I, like, never see any women there…”  Vulpes grimaces again.  Jackson’s eyes grow wide and he sneaks in a little finger of accusation at the frumentarii.  “I knew it!  Veronica was totally right!  I mean I just sorta figured, and you know, what with your gay little skirts and the whole Roman thing—Did you know the ancient Romans used to have some pretty bold dick-on-dick practices?  Does Caesar know that?  Also your Legionnaire bull insignia probably didn’t need to include the cock and balls in its design.  Though I do think it would be funny if the two headed bear had tits and a vagina.  It would be perfect because you Legion are dicks and NCR are pussies.”

 

“Wow…” Vulpes flops off Jackson, “Well now I definitely don’t want it anymore.”

 

“Hey, careful!” Jackson grabs his guitar out of Vulpes’ way, “Almost rolled onto Fret Atkins!”

 

“You named your guitar… _Fret Atkins_?” Vulpes repeats slowly, “I, I don’t even know the reference but that pun still makes me angry.”

 

“Well, see, there was this country music star, Chet Atkins, and he—”*

 

“No, no,” Vulpes shushes the courier, “For the last time, I don’t care about relics of the old world.”

 

“Hey that’s not fair!” Jackson frowns, “I pretend to listen when you talk about your dumb shit!”

 

“What dumb shit?”

 

“I don’t know!” Jackson tosses his hands in the air, “I only pretend to listen!”

 

Vulpes tackles Jackson and presses his thumbs into the courier’s temples until he cries uncle.  Not a violent gesture—just aggressively playful, like two dogs nipping at each other.  When Vulpes releases his grip he looks down at the courier with tender eyes.  It was weird how happy the frumentarii felt.  It was an alien sensation he was only newly discovering.  Similar to the satisfaction of drawing profligate blood or getting a steady day-long blowjob.  Vulpes gently brushes his fingers down the side of Jackson’s cheek, once again admiring his dilated eye.  The courier smiles.

 

“You know…” Jackson suggests, “Right here’s the perfect place to act out a dream of mine… doesn’t even include sex.”

 

“Okay… what is it?” Vulpes narrows his eyes wisely thinking it was just another setup to a bit.

 

Jackson beams then sits up to push Vulpes backwards so their positions are swapped, “You lay here…”

 

“It’s _lie_ ,” Vulpes mentions.

 

“Hey don’t correct me!  I said _lay_ and I meant _lay._   Whose fantasy is this?  Clearly not yours or I’d be giving you an ol’ fashion—”

 

“Shushhh!” Vulpes tries to hush the courier, glancing around. 

 

Jackson laughs, “Ain’t no one around to hear about your doinkings.”  He clears his throat and stands up to yell into the hills through cupped hands, “Vulpes likes a good ol’ fashion reach-around!  And he’s too proud to admit it but he’s cleeeeearly into nipple play!  Also he’s got a freckle on his—”

 

“No, stop!  Stop!  For the love of god, stop!” Vulpes kicks out at Jackson who’s already doubled over in laughter.

 

* * *

 

After a few minutes of mirth, playful aggression and gayness in both senses of the word, they manage to calm down enough for Jackson to achieve his little wish. 

 

“Is this it?” Vulpes asks lying in the grass.

 

“Yup,” Jackson confirms, lying in the grass facing opposite of Vulpes so that their heads were resting beside each other.

 

“Am I supposed to—”

 

“Shhh…” Jackson whispers and points to the sky, “Look at the clouds.”

 

 _Clouds.  Sky.  Sun.  Oh, look—a crow.  Fucking fascinating._   Vulpes doesn’t understand what’s so significant about this.  He cranes his neck to look at Jackson.  The courier is mindlessly gazing upwards, just cloud watching.  Like a Nightkin being weaned off of stealthboys, Vulpes fidgets restlessly.  The frumentarii wasn’t like Jackson—he didn’t appreciate music and art and nature.  Vulpes takes most things at face value.  Jackson is the kind to appreciate dumb things like clouds and country-western songs.

 

“See that cloud?” Jackson points, “Looks like a fish.”

 

“Huh…” Vulpes scans the sky then points, “That cloud looks like a decapitated profligate.”

 

“Oh yeahh…” Jackson squints, “Ooh that one looks like a rocket ship!”

 

“That one looks like a crucifix.”

 

“That one looks like god’s erection!”

 

“That big dark cloud?”

 

“Yeah, the veiny one.”

 

“Huh… yeah, that seems accurate…”

 

The pre-war folk really loved their idioms and allegories.  They had hundreds and hundreds of weird sayings they’d use as casual as can be.  Nowadays a lot of those phrases sound like nonsense.  Vulpes thinks of the expression _‘Stop and smell the flowers_ ’.  That saying goes beyond just the literal, Vulpes thought, and Jackson really lived it.  Not only did the courier actually stop to smell the flowers but he also took time to appreciate every small stupid wonder in the world, from the grass to the clouds.

 

* * *

 

The two continue cloud-watching for a while longer.  Eventually Jackson sits up to pull out a bottle of whiskey and incrementally sips it empty before he speaks up rather somberly.

 

“So… After I got shot in Goodsprings, I went out into the wastes just, you know, wandering.” 

 

Surprised, Vulpes listens, quietly wondering where Jackson’s going with this.

 

“That bullet shredded my memories.  Couldn’t even remember my own name.  I drifted.  Needed the caps so I prospected.  And there was this one old ranch in the flat plains.  Stole into the basement thinking I was gonna score a load of caps but what I found was an altar.  Records, posters, books, photos, clothes… all dedicated to the same guy—The Man In Black.  In the corner was this guitar perfectly preserved in its case.  I was fascinated.  Holed myself up in that ranch for a week listening to his music and reading all the in-tact books about him.  Oh, what a character…  Some people are just destined to suffer until it makes them sing,” Jackson chuckles, “By then some of my memories had come back.  And… well… I guess the idea of a charismatic guitar-wielding champion of circumstance sounded more appealing than… than Courier Six… So I dawned the guitar and practiced until I got good; it came really naturally to me too.  Anyways since my revival, this guitar is the only thing that’s really made sense to me… Well, that and you.”

 

Vulpes absorbs the little story in silence before responding.  It sounded like it might’ve been the truth and not just more of Jackson’s prattling.  “So you do remember who you were before that delivery?”

 

“Bits and pieces,” Jackson whispers, “I wasn’t even born with the name _Jackson_.”

 

“Really?” Vulpes lets his curiosity get the best of him.

 

“Yeaaah…” Jackson starts.  Vulpes sees him reach for his guitar and cuts him off.

 

“No.  No no no no,” Vulpes stretches to half-heartedly slap at Jackson, “No musical explanations.”

 

“Oh come on!  I know you’re curious!” Jackson rolls over onto his stomach.

 

Vulpes cocks an eyebrow at the courier, “I know it’s just going to be a bit.”

 

Jackson chuckles as he shrugs, “Maybe… but it’ll be funny!”

 

“Ughhh…” Vulpes rakes his fingers down his face in exasperation, “Fine… but this is the last one you get for the rest of the chapter.”

 

“Deal!” Jackson leaps to his feet and grabs his guitar as Vulpes reluctantly sits up for what will surely be yet another ridiculous performance.  He starts plucking at the strings as he poses his introduction in that honeyed cowboy drawl thickest with guitar in hand, “So once upon a time there was a brown-eyed handsome man… who traveled in search of… himself.”  Vulpes rolls his eyes.  “Desperate for a place to call home he found it… in music!”

 

_“We got married in a fever… hotter than a pepper sprout… We’ve been talkin’ bout… Jackson, ever since the fire went out, I’m going to Jackson… I’m gonna mess around… Yeah I’m going to Jackson… Look out Jackson town…”_

 

Jackson smiles widely as he plays and Vulpes rolls his eyes but smiles through the rest of the silly song.  Vulpes isn’t sure if the courier was serious about taking his name from a country song about passion and nefariousness in a swinging pre-war city down south.  Maybe it didn’t matter.

 

 

Jackson wished that afternoon on Vault 22’s lawn lasted indefinitely.  With every passing week, the courier was becoming more and more burdened with politics and maintaining connections.  Every time he tackled faction affairs he felt his relationship to Vulpes increasingly strained.  In favor of superficial simplicity and short-term reward, in the premier weeks of their relationship Jackson and Vulpes agreed to not talk about politics.  It was precarious.  But in the gritty callous wasteland, sometimes people cling to scraps of fleeting happiness knowing it might be the last chance.

 

Vulpes is Legion plain and simple.  But Jackson remains a wild card and unfortunately for the indecisive courier, it’s nearly time to pick a side.  Time for the beast to finally join his pack.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Easter Eggs and Notes**

* “Two years, twenty-six days, thirty-two minutes.”  2.26.32… February 26, 1932—Johnny Cash’s birthday

* Okay, so, in the OWB DLC the character “Dr. O, or _Zero_ ” is voiced by James Urbaniak, who does the voice for main character Dr. Thaddeus “Rusty” Venture on the show “The Venture Brothers.”  No, I’m totally serious.  Google it and be fucking thrilled.

* 23:59… Johnny Cash was about twenty-three years old when his career took off.  His music career lasted around fifty-nine years.

* “…Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be ‘morrow.”  Line from _Romeo & Juliet_.

* Chet Atkins is widely considered one of the godfathers of country music.


	4. Walk The Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Wanderer" is a long-winded narrative of a complex romance in the Mojave told through the exploits of one guitar-wielding jokester.
> 
> It's been nearly two years since Benny's bullet. Through the long months leading up to the battle for Hoover Dam, Jackson and Vulpes' relationship has been increasingly strained. Now it's finally time for Jackson to choose his allegiance as he decides what's more important to him--his personal ethics or his happiness with Vulpes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first half of the conclusion to this story. Let me know what you think.

 

* * *

**Part IX:   Bird On A Wire**

 

“We need your help,” Vulpes implores.

 

Jackson was reposed by a campfire somewhere nondescript in the eastern border of the desert when the frumentarii appeared in the night.  By now the courier was getting used to Vulpes suddenly slinking out from the shadows like a Nightstalker with stealthboy exposure.

 

He stokes the flame of the fire as he takes a sip of whiskey.  “With you around, I’ll never have the hiccups… Now, what are you going on about?”

 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Vulpes keeps on his feet and stares down at the courier with a stern look across his face, “Caesar.”

 

Jackson’s eyes flicker to meet the frumentarii’s gaze for a moment before he looks back to the fire and speaks tiredly, “I thought we agreed not to talk about work.”

 

“He’s comatose and dying, Jackson,” Vulpes insists, “It’s a, a brain tumor or something… We need your help.”

 

Jackson frowns, “I told you I’m no surgeon…” 

 

“It’s not **your** hands he needs,” Vulpes takes a step closer to the courier, “There is one man... a talented enough researcher who can perform the operation.  A friend of yours.”  Jackson narrows his eyes.  “Arcade Gannon,” Vulpes confirms the courier’s suspicions.

 

“Vulpes, I-I don’t want to talk about business…” Jackson attempts to quiet the topic, predicting the worst.

 

The frumentarii exhales, “I don’t care, Jackson—this is imperative.  We **need** you to bring Arcade Gannon to us.”

 

“You mean you want me to throw a close friend into slavery,” Jackson knows the Legion’s modus operandi, “I have _some_ moral boundaries, you know.”

 

“Caesar’s life is on the line,” Vulpes strains, “With every passing day he grows weaker, his breath shallower and if something is not done soon...” Vulpes stiffens his lip.  “We cannot lose his command; not this close to our siege on Hoover Dam.  Assist us, Jackson.”

 

He eyes Vulpes as he takes another sip, “No.”

 

“What the hell do you mean _No_?” Vulpes spits, insulted by the courier’s lack of hesitance.

 

Jackson shrugs, “Nah.  Nuh-uh.  _Nihil_.”

 

“Stop this grating insolence for just once!” Vulpes lunges forward to grab Jackson by the cuff of his shirt and shakes him a little, “I have neither the time nor the patience for your relentless impudence!  Especially right now!”

 

Jackson takes a sharp inhale and breathes a heavy sigh through his nose before forcing a smile, “Oh sweet cactus flower, we get along so much better when we don’t talk about work.”

 

“What is wrong with you?!” Vulpes shoves Jackson out of his grip and pivots, putting his hands behind his head in exasperation. 

 

Jackson reorients himself, eyeing Vulpes.  “You know what the biggest tragedy of the apocalypse is?” he starts. 

 

The frumentarii rolls his eyes, “Uh, the billions of lives lost and the irreparable damage to the Earth?”

 

“No,” Jackson smiles, “The biggest tragedy is that everyone lost their sense of humor…  You and everyone else in this wasteland take everything too seriously.  There’s better things to do than squabble and kill over which faction’s got the biggest dick.”

 

The frumentarii turns again to face the courier, knitting his brows, “There are matters at stake large enough that I, for one, cannot just sit around all day playing guitar and drinking…  Moreover, you can’t just abstain from being a part of the story **you** started in Goodsprings all that time ago.”

 

Jackson frowns again, momentarily disarmed.  His response is an inaudible mumble into his flask and the frumentarii’s temper grows shorter.  Vulpes snatches the whiskey from Jackson’s hand and pitches it into the night.  There’s a few seconds of silence before the glass shatters somewhere in the darkness.

 

“Nice,” Jackson exhales in mild frustration.

 

“If you care about me, you’ll do this, Jackson,” Vulpes says daringly.

 

“That’s not how this sort of thing works,” Jackson smirks.

 

Vulpes rubs his temples in an attempt to soothe his mounting anger, then sighs raggedly.  He looks to Jackson with tired eyes, “If I was the one dying would you do it for me?”

 

Jackson’s face falls for a moment.  He shakes his head then scoffs, “Doesn’t matter; that’s not the situation.” 

 

“How can you be so aloof?” asks Vulpes, hurt.

 

Jackson laughs, this time stoking the fire within the frumentarii.  “Look, _Red_.  I’ve made peace with you being Legion.  I’ve chosen not to think about your boner-shriveling daddy issues with Caesar.  I even got used to that look you get on your face when you judge the shit out of me—Yeah, that one!  But here’s the thing… You lined up behind a sick man.  People die all the time.  Sometimes it’s some no-name, sometimes it’s a warlord.  Tough shit but thems the cards that were dealt.”

 

The courier’s words smack Vulpes with nearly enough force to knock the wind out of him.  He scoffs at the courier’s heartlessness and shakes his head.  A thought pops into his mind.  He narrows his eyes at Jackson.

 

“You’re sleeping with that researcher… aren’t you?”

 

“W-what?  Arcade?” Jackson laughs in surprise, “God no.”

 

“Be honest!” Vulpes points another antagonizing finger.

 

Jackson looks Vulpes up and down, amused by the accusation.  “I’m not sleeping with him…”  He opens his mouth to continue but Vulpes preemptively attempts to silence him.

 

“Jackson, I swear if you make some joke—”

 

“He’s also a top; it would’ve never worked.”

 

Vulpes does what he can to swallow the bulk of his fury but still turns away, incensed, “Knew you’d say some shit like that…”  He mutters something in Latin to himself under his breath before turning his gaze to the stars desperately, “Why… why… why… is this the man I’m closest to?  I must have no self-respect…  That must be it…”

 

“Hey,” Jackson chuckles as he listens to Vulpes teeter on the edge of a mental breakdown.  He gets to his feet and slowly approaches the flustered frumentarii.  He gently puts his hands on Vulpes’ shoulders and turns him around so they’re facing each other.  Jackson smiles reassuringly, “Look at me… hey……..  Should we have sex?”

 

Vulpes swiftly elbows the courier in the face.

 

“Jesusfuck!” Jackson stumbles holding his jaw, “Okay, okay, I definitely deserved that…  But you only get one sucker-punch a week, remember?”

 

Vulpes winds up another unrepressed punch and rockets his fist into Jackson’s groin.

 

Straining to keep his composure, Jackson cradles himself as he coughs then weakly huffs, “Oh god… Fine… fine… but now you’re spent for two weeks…”

 

Vulpes spins on the spot and delivers a perfect roundhouse kick that finally knocks Jackson into the dirt. 

 

Seething in rage, Vulpes stands over the disheveled courier and growls, “It would be _most_ convenient if you brought us Arcade Gannon.  But I can certainly obtain him, myself.  We need only his eyes and hands for the operation.  So I should think he’ll be more amenable if I cut off his legs… maybe his—”

 

“Okay,” Jackson croaks from the ground, “Point made.”

 

When Jackson tries to sit up, Vulpes crushes him back down with a heavy foot, “No matter what… Caesar’s Legion will always be my priority, _profligate_.” 

 

It had been many months (and dickings) since Vulpes used that word against Jackson.  After all this time, the term wounds the courier heavily, despite him knowing it was just a punctuation for upmost seriousness.  Just this one issue seems big enough to undo the pair’s history. 

 

The frumentarii removes his boot. 

 

He peers down at Jackson and adds, “But because you are so _dear_ to me, I’ll generously give you forty-eight hours to bring Arcade Gannon to The Fort before I come for him, myself.  And do remember—Legion eyes are everywhere so don’t bother trying to help him flee…  I pray you do the right thing, Jackson.”

 

* * *

 

As far as wickets go, this one was stickier than a basement-dwelling gore-bag in summertime.  Recently Jackson had returned from his long trek back to his origins in California with a fresh tattoo on his chest and new outlook on life.

 

It was during this tangent Jackson had begun to embrace his endorsement for independence as he quickly lost faith in others, especially Legion and NCR.  When the time came, Jackson pacified Ulysses in a rare, yet genuine act of sincere guilt and empathy.  And when the missile systems began its countdown, Jackson felt a bitter yet nihilistic fire in his belly, deciding to nuke both the Long 15 and Dry Wells, in part revenge for his hapless hand in the birth of The Divide.  The new grandiose tattoo splattered across his chest illustrated this bitterness—twin war heads breathing crossed trails of fiery exhaust before a city of crags and ruin.  Framing the tattoo is a thin ribbon reading ‘ _We hope for justice but there is none, For salvation but it is far from us_ ’.* 

 

So Jackson returned to the Mojave prepared for war and found himself predictably blighted by all parties.  Now just one more act of treason against Legion and NCR will permanently condemn him.  But this was of little concern to the courier—he has no interest in allegiances anymore.  After all, he disposed of Mr. House and was now secretly in command of an army of securitrons waiting underground for their services to at long last be called upon. 

 

In the nearly two years since Benny’s bullet, Jackson had seen and experienced enough to finally accept his role in the world, and develop the responsibility to at long last allow the Mojave, and himself, to progress.

 

Legion eyes are watching.  Jackson knows he can’t sneak Arcade out of the Mojave undetected and dismays the idea of Vulpes personally mutilating him out of short-tempered spite.  Jackson sees very few options.  He tries to think about it for Vulpes’ sake. 

 

 

* * *

**Part X:  Twenty-Five Minutes To Go**

 

The courier picks Arcade up from the Old Mormon Fort and invites him for a drink on the Strip.  They go to the Tops where Jackson is respected by some and feared by others.  Rumor has it Jackson crucified Benny for playing him but the courier has never fully confirmed or denied it. 

 

 

“I don’t usually drink, or even come to the Strip,” Arcade says as a server dishes a few shot glasses and a bottle of scotch, “But I think a little R&R is just what I need.  Consecutively failed research experiments gets depressing after a while.  Also I share facility with chem addicts.”

 

Jackson chuckles a little, “It’s been a while since we caught up.”

 

“Yeah, you haven’t been around much lately,” Arcade points out, thinking back to the times in which they used to travel together, “But I just assumed that was because you’re busy… off murdering people or whatever it is couriers do.”

 

Jackson laughs.  He always liked Arcade’s weary cynicism.

 

“You know there was something I meant to ask you…” a cautious grin creeps across the researcher’s face.  “A while ago you mentioned you found The Big Empty…” Arcade says with a glint of wonder in his eyes, “But you never really told me about all the scientific and medical discovers you stumbled on there…  You just talked a lot about befriending an entourage of kitchen appliances…”

 

“Oh yeah.  Great group of electrodes, them,” Jackson laughs again, recalling his escapades at Big MT, “Well I bet you’d love to hear all about the technology I found there.”

 

“Start with the biological research stations, please.”

 

 

The two shared stories and jokes.  They laughed, drank and a few times they wiped a tear away from roaring too hard.  Oh the fun times to be had drunk and later not completely remember.  The two always got along well.  Arcade was a good guy.  Certainly not the sort of person anyone should wish into slavery or leglessness.

 

At the end of the night, Jackson offered Arcade his nice bed on the thirteenth floor.  A nearly lifelong alcoholic able to efficiently compose himself while inebriated, Jackson half-carries half-drags the slewing Arcade to his room.  He tosses the partly-conscious researcher onto the mattress, reassuring him it was no trouble and clumsily yanks off his boots.

 

Arcade attempts to speak cohesively, face partly buried in plush, words slipping out of the corner of his mouth, “Thanks Jackson…  Yer a real goo’ friend…”

 

Jackson works to pull off his remaining boot, “There’s sumfin’ I always wanted to tell you, Arcade…”

 

“Mhm?” the researcher’s eyes fight to stay open.

 

“I think yer one-a-the best people around… and I don’ want nothing bad to happen to ya…  I care about yas and I want ya to know that—Oh, yer asleep…” Jackson notices Arcade’s now completely unconscious. 

 

He sighs a little then plucks the researcher's glasses to place them on the drawer next to the bed.

 

Arcade was dead asleep but the courier rested very little, anxiously worrying about the next day.  He paced the suite, hammering more booze and chain smoking until he finally passed out on the couch after a heavy dose of Med-X, not knowing just how close he came to an accidental overdose.

 

* * *

 

In the morning Jackson woke Arcade and asked if he wants to join him on a vague diplomatic venture.  They took their time traveling south.  Jackson was a quieter than usual, didn’t even bring his guitar, but Arcade just wrote it off as a hangover.  When they arrive at Cottonwood Cove and Jackson leads Arcade to the dock, the researcher pauses.

 

“Hold on, are we going to Caesar’s Fort?” he asks.

 

Jackson turns and forces a smile, “Yeah… I need to speak with Caesar.  And I figured you might like an excuse to check out the Legion base.”

 

“You’re working for Legion now?” Arcade accuses, becoming visibly concerned.

 

“No…” Jackson shakes his head, “You know I’m not.  I simply want to hear him out.  _Research_ all sides to this thing.”

 

“I… don’t know…” Arcade hesitates, glancing across the river, “I don’t really want anything to do with Legion.”

 

“Oh… well I understand…” Jackson planned for this reaction.  “But I need to do this.  If you don’t want to come you’ll have to head the way back to New Vegas by yourself.”

 

Arcade thinks of the fifteen mile trek they just made and how much more dangerous it would be to head back alone without GPS or a well-armed sociopath.  “Well… okay I guess I’ll come with.  For research purposes…”

 

* * *

 

At the gate the duo is quickly patted down then head up to Caesar’s fort.  Arcade makes some comments about the camp and Jackson grunts his responses, too distracted to put on face.  Before they step into the tent at the top of the hill, Arcade looks to Jackson earnestly.

 

“You promise you’re not considering siding with Caesar?” he asks.

 

Jackson smiles a little, “I promise.”

 

Arcade sighs as he shakes his head, still rather doubtful, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

 

“Yeah… me too…” Jackson whispers to himself.

 

When the two walk in, they’re greeted by a handful of Praetorians.  Standing before Caesar’s empty throne is Lucius and Vulpes who are equally surprised to see the pair. 

 

“So you must be Arcade Gannon,” Lucius nods to Arcade, hiding his relief.

 

“Yes…” the researcher confirms slowly, glancing around expecting to see Caesar.

 

“You actually brought him…” Vulpes breathes more to himself than Jackson.  The courier looks sternly at Vulpes.  In the company of others, the two are strangers.

 

“Caesar’s in the back there,” Lucius gestures to the room beyond the throne.

 

Arcade furrows his brows and looks at Jackson, suspicion rising again, “Um… What’s going on?”

 

Jackson forces a reassuring smile and pats the researcher’s shoulder, “Everything’s going to be okay, Arcade…  Look.”

 

The courier points to Caesar’s room and Arcade looks.  There’s a dull crack.  Arcade wavers for a moment then collapses, dead.  Jackson stands holding the smoldering pistol he snuck into the camp.  For a few seconds, no one does or says anything.

 

Lucius explodes, lunging at Jackson, “You degenerate monster!  I’ll crucify you!”

 

Vulpes tosses his arms out to hold Lucius back.  The frumentarii’s eyes are fixed on the courier.  Jackson meets his gaze with equal intensity and carelessly drops his pistol to the ground.

 

Lucius stares daggers at Vulpes, “What are you doing?  This profligate just killed Caesar’s only hope of recovery!”

 

“Subsisto tu ipse,” Vulpes says simply. [Stay yourself]

 

“He’s bled Legion many times before!” Lucius yells, “Now he’s doomed our leader!  Enough is enough, Vulpes!  This courier must die now!”

 

“I said no, Lucius!” Vulpes yells back at equal decibel. 

 

He looks to Arcade’s crumpled body.  Perfect shot through the back of his skull, clumps of former genius brain leaking from the forehead.  Glasses cracked from when his body slumped.  His fingers and eyelids still twitching.

 

Vulpes looks back to Jackson though speaks to the room, “This _courier_ has made his intentions known.  He is hereby **officially** deemed an enemy of Legion…  He will justly meet his end on the battlefield along with the NCR.  We will march to Hoover Dam with or without our leader.”  Vulpes releases his grip on Lucius and pushes him backwards out of his way.  The frumentarii slowly walks to the courier, the two still fixed in an unblinking stare.  “Traitor… you will leave The Fort and never return.”

 

“If that’s what you want,” Jackson responds.

 

“Go,” Vulpes hisses.  He turns back to Lucius and the other Praetorians, “Feed this researcher’s body to the dogs.  I’ll send word to Lanius he’ll be leading the assault on Hoover Dam.”

 

Jackson takes one final sad look at Arcade’s body then leaves.  It’s better this way.  Arcade didn’t deserve slavery.  To Jackson, the merciful option was a quick bullet through the head.  He wishes things could’ve gone another way, though.  War is hell.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Easter Eggs and Notes**

* [Isaiah 59:11] 


	5. Ring of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Wanderer" is a long-winded narrative of a complex romance in the Mojave told through the exploits of one guitar-wielding jokester.
> 
> Since the journey back to his origins in California, Jackson returned to the Mojave aligned to independence, turning his back on Legion. Though Caesar is dead, his Legion continues to thrive as they prepare to march to Hoover Dam.  
> Now that Jackson reluctantly stands with NCR and the long awaited war is just around the corner, the only thing left to do is for he and Vulpes to come to terms with their fallout... I mean falling out.

 

* * *

**Part XI:  For The Good Times**

 

Jackson spent the next few days with Boone, feeling comfort in the company of someone who understood his choice.  He told Boone what happened with Arcade.  In few words, the sniper reassured the courier he made the right decision and commended him for betraying Legion and dooming Caesar.  However, Jackson only came to ally with NCR by default and held clandestine plans for forced independence after the assault.  But even still, Jackson liked Boone’s camaraderie, even if he was rather myopic and mute.  

 

Jackson and Boone were in Novac when word of Caesar’s death spread along the radio waves.  Most people in the wastes were quite happy to hear, thinking NCR would have a greater chance of success in the upcoming war. 

  

* * *

 

While Boone sleeps during the day for his night shift, Jackson sits restlessly in his motel room picking at his guitar but too distracted to find his center.  Frustrated, he tosses the guitar onto the bed with enough force for it to threaten toppling onto the ground.

 

Suddenly the motel door rattles neurotically.  It goes quiet for a moment then splinters open with a lurid bang.  Breathing bated, Vulpes steps into the room holding his Ripper.  Jackson leaps to his feet, arming himself with his shotgun and points it at the frumentarii’s chest.

 

“Stay your weapon, I’m not here to fight you,” Vulpes says.  He takes a few steps further into the room as the dust around his heels chatters, “I just need to know… what the fuck you’re thinking?!”

 

“I’m thinking some red skirt scum just kicked my damn door in and is now begging for a spotted vest,” Jackson growls.

 

“Put that fucking thing down,” Vulpes demands. 

 

“How about **you** put the knife down.” 

 

Jarred awake by the sound of the door above cracking open, Boone rushed upstairs to the commotion to point an assault rifle at the back of Vulpes’ head.  Vulpes reluctantly drops the Ripper and lifts his hands to his shoulders.

 

“Boone, don’t,” Jackson says to the sniper, “It’s fine.”

 

“This is Legion filth in sheep’s clothing, I know it,” Boone keeps a steady grip on his arm as he kicks the knife away.

 

“I know,” Jackson says, “But he’s just here to talk… isn’t that right?”

 

Vulpes can feel Boone’s sharp breath on the back of his neck.  He addresses the courier, “That’s right… Just here to talk to **you**.  So why don’t you call off your dog?”

 

Jackson nods to the sniper, “Boone.”

 

“Are you an idiot?” the sniper spits, “These Legion assassins have been coming in waves since you killed Caesar!  Now you want to talk to them?”

 

“Legion assassins?” Vulpes inquires sincerely.

 

Impossibly short-tempered fuse already burnt to its base, Boone spins his rifle around to smash the butt of it into Vulpes’ head.  But the frumentarii preemptively elbows the sniper in the gut then spins to wrestle the gun away.  The two only spar for a few seconds before Jackson unloads a shell into the ceiling to get their attention.

 

“Knock it off!” Jackson yells.  He points to the sniper, “Boone.  I fucking got this.  Go standby on the first floor or so help me jesus I’ll blow up the NCR monorail just to spite you!  And you!”  He points at Vulpes.  “Try anything funny and I’ll call _my hound_ back to rip you to pieces like the little fox you are.”

 

Boone very reluctantly obeys; not because he trusts Jackson but because he’s indebted to him after he helped alleviate the Bitter Springs trauma.  In addition, Boone was completely ignorant to the frumentarii’s true identity or his personal association to Jackson.  No doubt he’d put a bullet between the courier’s eyes if he knew of their tryst.

 

Before the sniper leaves he grabs Vulpes by the shoulder and angrily whispers something into his ear, then takes his post at the bottom of the stairs.  Vulpes’ eyes flick back to Jackson.

 

“Loyal mutt you got there,” he says snidely, “Does _it_ fight all your battles for you?”

 

“What can I say?” Jackson retires his shotgun to his back, “He likes killing red skirts and you’ve sure been sending hordes at me.”

 

“I didn’t order any assassins,” Vulpes tilts his head a little. 

 

Jackson slants his eyes, “Ever since I left The Fort… they just keep coming.”

 

Vulpes casts his eyes down for a moment, thinking.  “Must be Lucius… I told him not to waste resources on you.  He’s, he’s jarred by the loss of Caesar… we all are.”  He shakes his head and returns his gaze to the courier.  “And you rather have murdered your friend than let both he and Caesar live… Why?”

 

Murder.  The word stings.  Sounds dirty.  Evil. 

 

“I couldn’t let you enslave Arcade,” Jackson sighs, “He’s… he _was_ a good man and a good friend.”

 

“We wouldn’t have killed him!” insists Vulpes, “ **You** killed him!  That was **your** choice!  I don’t understand why you murdered him when he didn’t have to die.  And why you’re looking at me like it’s **my** fault **you** pulled that trigger.”

 

“Are you fucking stewed?  Of course it’s is your fault!” Jackson yells, gesticulating wildly, “There are fates worse than death, Vulpes.  Look at the fucking slaves you red skirts drag through the mud and just try to tell me that life is better than death.  The trigger was mercy— **I saved him**!”

 

“Oh ho…” Vulpes scoffs, “Right… you’re the noble hero and I’m the bad guy.  You’ve always been intoxicated by this fanciful concept of good and evil…  You know, at first I found it endearing but now… it’s just pathetic…  I gave you the benefit of the doubt but now I know for sure you’re just a little boy in a grown man’s war.”

 

Jackson is disarmed by the frumentarii’s words.  He shakes his head, trying to bury what he just heard and promises himself to the bottle come night.  “So then why are you here, Vulpes?”

 

The frumentarii eyes the guitar on the bed then takes a few steps closer to the courier.  “Despite your declaration of war and betrayal to me, I haven’t devalued our past.  Your killing Caesar breaks my heart— **You** … break my heart…” Vulpes exhales.  “But what’s done is done.  I need to lay our association to rest before the upcoming battle.”

 

“You’re here to say goodbye,” Jackson rephrases. 

 

There’s a pained silence. 

 

So many thoughts and emotions that could be said in the moment.  The two had been together on and off for nearly two years and during that time they had chosen to dismiss politics in preference for each other.  But it seems as though that dynamic was always doomed to fail.  Love is powerful but it pales in the shadow of personal ethics and ideology.  It was only a matter of time before things fell apart.

 

“How could you do this, Jackson?” Vulpes breathes, “After everything… after all that we’ve shared together… How could you betray me like this?”

 

“I didn’t betray you,” Jackson contests assuredly, “I was never obligated to join your side and you were never entitled to my alliance.  Please don’t tell me you stuck around all this time just because you thought I was going to back your team eventually.”

 

Vulpes shrugs a little, “I don’t know…”  There’s a pause.  “But if I would’ve known this is how you’d have things…”

 

Jackson scoffs softly, “Great…”  His mind flutters back to that first night at the Lucky 38.  “I guess I should’ve figured…”  He stares at Vulpes intently.  “This is my fault for expecting you to be anything else.”

 

Vulpes recognizes the throwback and sighs.  For a long moment the two quietly reminisce on that night.

 

Eventually Jackson breathes a sigh and speaks up again.  “There’s a timeless tale of two lovers who denounce their family’s rivalry so they could be together…”

 

Vulpes concentrates for a moment, trying to recall why that sounded familiar, “…You speak of _Romeo & Juliet_…”  The frumentarii recalls seeing Jackson’s withered copy of the book.  When he was young and still in Utah, Vulpes read the tale, himself, after the Followers taught him to read.  For that brief moment in his life, Vulpes shared Jackson’s appreciation for the arts.  Literature and cultured learning were swiftly removed from his life once he was brought into Caesar’s Legion.

 

Jackson smiles a little, “That’s right…  We could both defect… transcend these petty affairs of the unloved to preserve what contentment we have together.”

 

Vulpes laughs hollowly, "You know Romeo and Juliet both die at the end of that story, right?”

 

Jackson furrows his brows, “Really…?  I… I guess my book’s missing some pages…” 

 

His copy was in fact missing some pretty vital pages.  It was one of Jackson’s favorite books and yet it seems as though he read a completely different story—one that omitted disaster.  One that told a tale of troubled love and a convoluted plan to elope.  Hearing the real ending to the story fills Jackson with disappointment.  How is a tragedy like _Romeo & Juliet_ the most famous love story ever written?

 

“You could’ve defected, gone rogue with me…” Jackson whispers.

 

“You could’ve joined Legion, fought alongside me…” Vulpes responds.

 

This is the end.  Both know it.

 

“Vale, Jackson,” says Vulpes, “When we meet again on the battlefield… we **will** be enemies.”

 

Vulpes wavers, expecting Jackson to respond.  But the courier uncharacteristically chooses silence.  Vulpes looks to him one more time then turns to leave.  When the frumentarii descends the stairs, Boone watches him daringly, begging for an excuse to take another Legion life.  As they pass one another, Vulpes purposely shoves into the sniper’s shoulder and Boone nearly lunges. 

 

There’s a series of loud crashing sounds and Boone instead bounds up the stairs into Jackson’s room to find the courier breaking his guitar against the wall.  He doesn’t intervene.  Simply watches Jackson smash that irreplaceable black Martin until he’s holding a fraction of the neck dangling wooden entrails from steel tendons.

 

 _Good_ , Boone thinks to himself, _He’s passionate—he’ll be stronger in battle now._

 

 

 


	6. Ragged Old Flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Wanderer" is a long-winded narrative of a complex romance in the Mojave told through the exploits of one guitar-wielding jokester.
> 
> After years of adventure, diplomacy and love lost, it all comes down to the Battle for Hoover Dam. Jackson and Vulpes stand on opposite sides of the war, conflicted in their alliances and falling out. The fate of the Mojave and all its people rests on the outcome of this battle. Who will win? What will become of Jackson and Vulpes? I guess you'll just have to read to find out.

  

* * *

 

**Part XII:  Rusty Cage**

 

“What were you doing in Novac, Vulpes?”

 

As Vulpes makes his walk back to The Fort, a familiar voice confronts him.  He turns to see Lucius with arms crossed, ready for an argument.

 

“Lucius…” Vulpes breathes, “What are you doing all the way out here?”

 

Lucius nods towards the iconic dinosaur building out in the distance and restates, “You were in Novac.  What business summoned you that profligate town?”

 

“No business of yours,” Vulpes responds flatly, “Why are you following me, Lucius?  You should be at The Fort organizing the troops.”

 

“The troops, and Legate Lanius, are ready to march on command,” Lucius says and glances towards Novac again.  “That degenerate courier killed Caesar, Vulpes,” he adds knowingly.

 

“He did,” Vulpes agrees apathetically.

 

Lucius takes a step closer, “So if you went to see him, I trust it was to deliver just restitution.”  Vulpes stands his ground as Lucius takes another step towards him, this time jabbing a brash finger.  “Because if I find out you were working with him against Legion…  I’ll hang you from a cross.”  Vulpes twitches slightly to the threat and Lucius continues.  “I remind you… you owe Legion your life, Vulpes…  Now tell me you’re still suited to cast the first stone of battle.”

 

Vulpes sucks in his lip for a moment then exhales, “My priorities are in order, Lucius.”

  

* * *

 

Just a few short days later, Hoover Dam was dense with the vast NCR army.  Soldiers stood brown shoulder to shoulder waiting for President Kimball to arrive to deliver his speech.  Jackson was held up at the Lucky 38 casino running through his plan with Yes Man one more time.  Once all the pieces were in place, he rushed to the dam to meet up with the NCR troops and catches Boone at the back of the crowd with the other snipers.

 

“Jackson, what are you doing?” Boone snaps at Jackson, who grabs him by the shoulder trying to catch his breath.  He eyes the arsenal of weapons strapped to the courier’s back.  “You’re supposed to be up there protecting Kimball.”

 

“I know,” Jackson huffs, “I just…  Boone, in case we don’t see each other again—”

 

“You’ll be fine, Jackson,” Boone dismissively returns his gaze to the stage, “Just watch your back and keep moving.  Now get the hell up there—Kimball will be here any minute now.”

 

“I… um, alright,” Jackson pats Boone on the back a little awkwardly, “Fight well, friend.”

 

Jackson shoves through the crowd and hoists himself up onto the concrete stage of the dam to join the other guards and arms himself with a rifle.  He glances over the wall towards the bottom of the dam where he spies the first few of his securitrons take position.  They roll in, game faces chattering slightly on their monitors, and Jackson breathes a hushed sigh of relief.

 

“Nervous?”

 

“What?” Jackson jumps a little, turning to see Ranger Grant smiling reassuringly.  “Oh… yeah, a little.  First war.”

 

“You’ll be just fine, soldier,” he says, patting Jackson on the shoulder with a heavy hand.

 

Just then a whir and a gust of a jet black vertiberd descends onto the roof of the visitor’s center.  As its rotors slow, out steps President Kimball flanked by four well-armed rangers.  Ranger Grant whispers a last word of encouragement to Jackson as Kimball takes the stage.  He speaks clearly and confidently to his cheering troops.

 

“Thank you my fellow Californians, who have come so far to answer the call of service put forth by the republic!” Kimball booms as the applause hushes in respect.  “It is for you that I’ve come here and it is because of you that I am able to do so…”

 

Kimball’s voice quickly becomes muffled baritone to Jackson, his senses on high as he scours the area looking for anything suspicious.  Jackson’s gaze flicks to and from face to face until his eyes fall upon an NCR soldier atop a guard tower.  The soldier lifts his gun slowly, facing the stage.  Jackson squints, wary.  He looks through the scope on his rifle.  The soldier is Vulpes in disguise.

 

 _You sneaky little vixen,_ he thinks to himself, breathing a muffled sound of surprise.  He tears his eye away from the scope, thinking, then glances towards Kimball still giving his speech.   _This is too perfect,_ he thinks to himself, _Bless my luck._

 

Jackson looks back towards Vulpes, then chooses to not have noticed.  A crack like the sound of thunder cuts the speech short.  Kimball catches the bullet straight through the skull mid-sentence and falls forward towards his troops.  There’s a few seconds of stunned silence, then the shadows of a hundred spears momentarily shades the faces of NCR soldiers before raining down upon them.

 

Just like that, the battle begins.  Legion soldiers emerge from the hills and crags, rolling in to match arms with the scrambling NCR troops.  Jackson glances back to the guard tower but Vulpes has disappeared.  He looks over the wall again to see his securitrons slowly gaining number, and as the colossal sounds of war become all-encompassing, the droids begin firing at the stalwart dam.

 

Jackson stands on the wall of the dam looking out onto the chaos, momentarily transfixed.  Already the battlefield is singing the melody of war—gunfire, shouting and rumbling. 

 

“Fuck…” Jackson exhales.

 

“Move, soldier!” Ranger Grant is suddenly in front of Jackson, yelling to force his attention away from shock.  Jackson blinks a few times before recognizing the face before him.  “Kimball’s dead!  But all is not lost!  Let’s fight and die with honor protecting what’s rightfully ours and crush these degenerate Legion scum!”

 

The ranger slaps Jackson on the back then charges into the battlefield, becoming instantly consumed in the crowd.  Jackson swallows a dry lump in his throat and kneels down, clapping his hands together in prayer.

 

“Dear Mama Sims…  I know you’re busy burnin’ in hell, what for all your flagrant hoing, but if you could watch over me today…  I promise I’ll… I’ll cut back on the drinking…” he mumbles to himself then straightens up.  _Plan will work… Securitrons will bust the dam… Everything will be fine._   There’s a tumultuous boom of a cannon and Jackson can feel the rumble in his gut.  “Jesus… why did I fix that fucking Howitzer for Legion?”

 

Finally, Jackson leaps into the crowd to join the battle. 

  

* * *

 

**Part XIII:  God’s Gonna Cut You Down**

 

The battle kicked up a fog of dust that impaired vision and instilled more confusion among troops.  Despite soldiers wearing either red or brown, there’s so many people fighting, it’s difficult to discern friend from foe.  Eventually Jackson was painted head to toe in dirt and blood, armor torn and tattered exposing his iconic tattoos.  As he fights, he vaunts the illustrations of his adventures to every soldier who falls before him.

 

It wasn’t until the final wave Jackson had the opportunity to catch his breath and wonder if any of his friends survived.  As the battlefield rests in brief quietness as the last of the troops reorganize, Jackson hunches over, panting, and considers his last bottle of whiskey.

 

As the dust swirls around him, there comes an ominous thunder of heavy footsteps plated in steel armor.  When Jackson looks towards the noise, an NCR soldier comes flying from the dust cloud, trailing a ribbon of crimson.  Jackson swears and jogs to the soldier who weakly croaks to him.

 

“M-monster… of the East…  Kill him… kill… him…” the soldier hacks violently then grows still.

 

Another NCR body soars through the dust and scrapes along the ground.  Jackson can make out the sounds of metal on metal and gunfire, swearing to himself again then mutters, “This really goes beyond my job as a courier…”

 

He jabs a stimpack into his thigh then tosses the empty syringe to the ground before marching into the cloud.  The ground is littered with NCR bodies.  Every now and then there’s another deathly scream echoed in the plains.  The silhouette of the legate swims into focus in time for Jackson to see a mighty blade cleave the air and strike down the two attacking NCR soldiers like they were puny bloatflies.  When their bodies slide to a halt at Jackson’s feet, the legate takes notice to the courier’s presence.  He turns slowly and stands at an intimidating height and mass, boasting the NCR blood splattered over his heavy armor. 

 

Jackson projects his voice across the plain, “I guess you’re Legate Lanius.”

 

Lanius stares at Jackson through the darkness of his helm, eyeing the tattoos then speaks, his voice a little muffled and reverberated within the metal veil, “I know of you…   You are the profligate courier.  You did much good, then much more bad to Caesar’s Legion in these past few years…  I shall take pleasure in killing you.  But I suppose I should also thank you.”

 

“Thank me?” Jackson repeats.

 

Lanius holds his blade out towards Jackson, “You killed my mighty leader, Caesar.  While I lament his loss, the old man’s rule was at its end.  I shall take the empty throne and with it, assert my superior reign across the wastes in ways Caesar could only dream of…  So come, courier.  Meet your demise at the hungry steel of my blade.”

 

 _Oh god, I’m so fucking fucked_ , Jackson swears to himself.  He readjusts the strap on his ballistic fist then meets Lanius at the middle.  _Holy molerats, he’s enormous…_

 

Lanius swoops his blade and Jackson barely dodges it, taken aback at the legate’s speed.  The blade comes slamming down and Jackson rolls across the dirt to avoid it.  Before Jackson has time to regain his composure, Lanius shoots an arm out and grabs him by the neck, raising him into the air effortlessly.

 

The courier forks his right hand under Lanius’ arm in a small gap between his armor and fires a shot from his ballistic fist.  Lanius recoils, dropping Jackson.  Landing on his feet, Jackson launches a few more attacks into Lanius’ abdomen before he’s swatted backwards.  Lanius instantly rushes him, repeatedly spearing his blade down at Jackson who flops along the dirt avoiding impalement.  The blade sinks down again and this time Jackson grabs the spine of it.  Lanius tries to shake the courier away but Jackson uses the momentum of it to bounce back to his feet. 

 

“You scurry like prey,” Lanius hisses, amused.

 

Lanius charges Jackson again, this time jabbing the blade in forward thrusts.  Jackson repeatedly knocks the weapon away using the back of his ballistic fist and Pipboy.  Lanius arches the blade overhead and Jackson stumbles backwards, barely avoiding the attack.  He turns away, covering his face and Lanius looks down at his blade, the point resting on the face of a skillfully dropped mine.  At a slight twitch, it detonates.

 

Lanius growls, patting out a small flame on his cloak, searching for the courier through the chattering dust.  “Ubi es, simia…?” he glances around.

 

There’s a launching sound from the dust.  A sparkling glare trailing behind a thin rocket flies through the fog and explodes into Lanius’ armor as he tries to shield himself.  When a second rocket fires from the haze, Lanius swoops his blade and slices the ballistic clean in two.

 

Lanius chuckles hollowly, “You want to play hide and seek?”  He pulls out a wreath of grenades from his belt and yanks the pin out of one before hurling it into the cloud. 

 

When it explodes, he can hear Jackson shuffling, and throws another, then another.  The grenades flush Jackson from cover and in his scramble, he trips and the Red Glare rocket launcher slips from his hands into the sand. 

 

“There you are…” Lanius lances his blade through the air with such power it sinks straight into Jackson’s side as he tries to reach for his fallen weapon.

 

Jackson buckles again, grabbing the flesh around the blade and instinctually scoots backwards as Lanius walks to him.  He doesn’t need to see the legate’s face to know he’s smiling in triumph.  Lanius plants his foot on Jackson’s chest then yanks the blade out to yells of agony.  As Jackson cradles the wound, he shakily grabs his shotgun from his back and fires at Lanius a few times.  The pellets from the shells scrape into Lanius’ heavy armor but do nothing to stop him. 

 

“You had a good run, courier,” Lanius says, shrugging off the meager shells.  He tilts his head left and right, cracking his neck then arms his blade once more. 

 

“Wait, wait!” Jackson cries out desperately, “T-think about this for a moment!  Caesar’s dead!”  As he speaks vehemently, he pulls out a stimpack and jabs it into his wound.  “Even if you win the war, you’ve already lost too many Legion troops to even control all the NCR territory!  Y-you—”

 

“No,” Lanius interrupts.  He uses his blade to smack the shotgun out of Jackson’s hand then points his weapon again.  “I know all about you, courier…  I know your keenest weapon is that silver tongue.  And I will not grant you the opportunity to use it.  This is the end of your chapter, courier…”

 

 _Oh fuck me…  This is really happening,_ Jackson watches Lanius raise his blade once more, _Thought I’d be strong enough…  Thought everything would work out…  Thought… thought…  Shit…  Should’ve been better to Vulpes when I had the chance…_

 

Lanius arches his blade down in one fell swoop and Jackson forces himself to keep his eyes open, to be fearless in the moment of death like he was always taught.

 

Suddenly there’s a small explosion across Lanius’ chest and he stumbles.  In a blink of an eye, he’s flipped over by a nimble blur and lands heavily in the sand. 

 

Jackson has to blink several times to register the change of events.  “Vulpes?”

 

Vulpes Inculta skillfully pulls out his rifle and fires it in a crack between Lanius’ armor.  The legate roars in anger and pain, spinning to his feet and knocks Vulpes backwards with the hilt of his blade.  When Lanius recognizes Vulpes, he tilts his head a little.

 

“Vulpes…?  What are you doing?” he growls in agitated confusion.

 

“Thinking for myself, Lanius,” Vulpes responds and takes fighting stance again.

 

Lanius looks to Jackson on the ground then back to the frumentarii.  “You’re protecting the courier…?  Turning your back on Legion…?”  He scoffs, his breath echoed from beneath the mask.  “I always knew you were weak…  No matter.  I was going to kill you when I remade Legion in my image anyways.”

 

Lanius strikes out at Vulpes and the two begin sparring.  Jackson can barely understand what’s happening and sputters dumbly from the sand.  “Vulpes… you… you’re…”

 

“Trying to keep us both alive, Jackson!  Get the fuck up!” Vulpes yells. 

 

“Oh, shit, right!” Jackson hauls himself to his feet, trying to ignore the pain in his side. 

 

Lanius knocks Vulpes’ gun away and swings his blade.  Vulpes rolls behind Lanius and pops back to his feet to launch a few punches into the legate’s spine.  Lanius swats a powerful hand backwards, disrupting Vulpes’ attack then bowls him over with the blunt edge of his blade again.  Jackson rips off a piece of his sleeve and pulls out his bottle of whiskey, yanking the cork out with his teeth and spits it into the sand.  He shoves the cloth into the neck and lights the end of it with Benny’s golden lighter then hurls the bottle at Lanius before he can move in on Vulpes again.  It shatters in flames all across his head and shoulders.

 

As Lanius flails, trying to put out the fire, Jackson rushes to Vulpes and helps him to his feet.  “Holy fuck, Vulpes…  What, what are you doing?”

 

“Saving you, ‘the hell does it look like?” Vulpes strains to a stand.

 

“What about Legion?  What about… what about everything you believe in?” Jackson knits his brows.

 

“I believe in you, Jackson.”

 

“Good god that’s corny…  But I still like you, too,” Jackson chuckles a little.

 

“I saw securitrons firing at the dam.  They’re being picked off…” Vulpes explains, dawning his gauntlet, “Those are yours aren’t they?  You’re planning to blow the dam so Legion and NCR don’t have reason to fight in the Mojave anymore, isn’t that right?”

 

“House, Caesar and, good graces thanks to you, Kimball are dead.  Legion and NCR are emaciated beyond repair,” Jackson says, “The Mojave is one busted dam away from factionless union…  I’m… I’m sorry I couldn’t let you in on my plan…  I’m sorry for a lot of things, Vulpes.”

 

“Heh, you never knew the meaning of subtlety…  But I’m with you, Jackson,” Vulpes looks at the courier sincerely, “I’ve… been blinded by Legion discipline… but you were right all along…  I don’t want to be told what to believe in anymore.  I want to be my own man and make my own choices.  And I choose to stand with you.”

 

“Augh!” Lanius finally extinguishes the flames as he roars in rage, “You will both die like the degenerate mongrels you are!”

 

Jackson grins to Vulpes, “Well, let’s fuck him up, cactus flower.”

 

Lanius comes charging and Jackson and Vulpes split separate ways.  Lanius swoops his blade in a circle around him.  Jackson grabs the neck of the blade for just long enough for Vulpes to fire a punch into Lanius’ helm.  Incensed, Lanius swats at Vulpes, who leaps backwards and Jackson shoves the handle of the blade back into Lanius’ gut.  When Lanius hunches over, Jackson and Vulpes uppercut him in unison and he stumbles backwards.

 

Jackson and Vulpes pivot around Lanius, striking repeatedly until the legate regains his composure and smashes the blunt end of his blade across Jackson’s head then grabs Vulpes by the hem of his armor.  Vulpes fires a pointblank ballistic shot at Lanius’ helm which does little more than further aggravate.  Lanius slams Vulpes into the ground, but before he can drive the blade in, Jackson comes charging, leaping and delivering a heavy kick in the square of Lanius’ back.  When Lanius falls forward, Vulpes rolls out of the way and Jackson yanks him to his feet.  Lanius catches himself on his hands and knees.

 

Vulpes stomps down on Lanius’ grip on his blade as Jackson winds up a blunt kick to his head.  This time the metal helm slips off and clambers to the ground loudly.  When the two try and move in on him again, this time Lanius tumbles away and rolls back onto his feet.  The legate’s face is fractured and mutilated, his left cheek missing a chunk of tissue, now calloused and disfigured like deep desert canyons.  He wipes the blood from his broken lip with the back of his hand, seething.

 

“Wow, I’ve seen better looking ghouls,” Jackson taunts.

 

Lanius’ response is a beastly bellow as he comes charging again, this time striking out with equally powerful fists.  The three strike, block, counter and pivot.  Despite Jackson and Vulpes’ teamwork, Lanius remains strong.  When the three are brought to the limits of their endurance, Lanius shifts the battle in his favor yet again.

 

He knocks Jackson backwards into the desert with such power, the courier gasps to refill the air in his lungs.  Before he can move in to once more deal the final blow, Vulpes tackles him and the two skid along the dirt.  Jackson catches his breath and notices his fallen rocket launcher resting beside him.

 

“You’re pathetic, Vulpes…” Lanius spits under the frumentarii’s grip, “I can’t believe I ever stood with you.”

 

 “I’ve been looking forward to your death, Lanius…” Vulpes grins deviously then shouts to the courier.  “Take the shot, Jackson!”

 

Jackson aims the rocket launcher but Vulpes and Lanius are right on top of each other.  “I-I can’t get a clean shot, Vulpes!”

 

“Just do it, Jackson!” Vulpes roars as Lanius fidgets out of his grip.

 

“Legion will never die,” Lanius hisses, “No matter what, you’ll never be able to extinguish the ideals of purity and preservation!”

 

“V-Vulpes!” Jackson cries desperately.

 

“TAKE THE FUCKING SHOT, JACKSON!” Vulpes yells one more time.

 

“Fuuuck, man…” Jackson squeezes the trigger.  The rocket erupts from its chamber, zooming through the air and detonates into the pair.

 

Jackson blinks and flexes his jaw trying to restore his vision and hearing as clumps of rock and dirt rain down.  He shouts for Vulpes, only able to hear the baritone of his voice through a high pitch buzzing.  The dust settles and Jackson can make out two bodies lying still in the sand.  He rushes over to Vulpes.  His armor is torn and blackened, his face and arms bloody.

 

“Oh, fucking shit…” Jackson breathes, his senses returning.  He frantically pulls out his last few stimpacks, jabbing the needles into Vulpes’ forearm.  “Wake up… wake up, Vulpes…  Oh hell, please be okay…”  He waits a few moments but the frumentarii doesn’t stir.  Jackson crumbles onto Vulpes’ chest and swears again.  “Oh god this is all my fault…  I kicked the Mojave hornet’s nest a dozen times over and killed the people I was closest to… And for what?  Mutually assured destruction to Legion and NCR?  Forced independence?  Fuck, I even broke my stupid guitar…”

 

“Thank god…” a weak croak under Jackson’s arms, “Now I don’t have to hear any more country music…”

 

Jackson peels himself away to see Vulpes blearily open his eyes.  “You’re alive!” Jackson cries out and embraces Vulpes a little rougher than he probably should’ve, “Oh thank JC, you’re okay…”

 

Vulpes coughs.  “JC?  Jesus Christ?”

 

Jackson beams at Vulpes, “Not him…  Johnny Cash!”

 

Vulpes goes quiet for a moment then squints into a laugh, falling for Jackson’s charming nature all over again.  Vulpes pulls the syringes from his arm and Jackson helps him to his feet.  He tests his regenerating strength, reveling in the miracle of the modern medicine of profligates.  They stare down at the dead Lanius, lying charred and bloodied in the sand. 

 

Jackson smiles at Vulpes, “We make a pretty good team.”

 

“Oh, don’t say that; it’s so cliché,” Vulpes rolls his eyes.

 

They grin goofily at one another then lean in to kiss.  Before their lips touch, a voice seeped in rage booms from the haze.

 

“Profligates!  Both of you!” Lucius emerges from the dust flanked by the last of the Legion soldiers.  He slowly approaches the two, kicking a bodiless head from his path.  He rests to a halt and stands confidently, his once sleek crimson armor now mossed over in dirt and blood. 

 

“Speaking of clichés…” Jackson grumbles.

 

Lucius points to Vulpes.  “You…  I...  I feared you were conspiring with that degenerate courier.  But I never thought you were…”  He makes a face of disgust.  “Repulsive…”

 

Jackson grabs his shotgun from the ground but Vulpes pushes the barrel downward.  “No… this is my fight, Jackson.”

 

“Are… are you sure?” asks Jackson with concern, “You just took a close-range ballistic to the everywhere…”

 

“I’m fine,” Vulpes reaffirms, “It’s almost over…  But you need to get to the dam and blow that thing once and for all; the securitrons can’t break through alone.  I’ll stay back… handle Lucius.”

 

“I…” Jackson’s voice peters out studying the seriousness of Vulpes’ face, “Ahh… you’re right.  I need to end this…” He looks to Vulpes a little nervously.  “Vulpes… I… I… um… I love ya.”

 

“I know…” Vulpes squeezes Jackson’s hand.  “Finish this, Jackson.”

 

The courier sighs a little then nods.  When he lunges forward to grab his rocket launcher, Lucius tries to head him off.  Vulpes charges, knocking Lucius into the dirt and Jackson grabs the heavy weapon before sprinting off towards the cliffs overlooking the dam.

 

Lucius shoves Vulpes off him.  “Troops!” he yells, “ **Kill that courier!** ”

 

From the hills and the dust, the last of the Legion troops chase Jackson down before he can make it to the cliffs as Vulpes and Lucius begin their brawl. 

 

Vulpes and Lucius pivot in a circle, striking out and blocking.  Lucius lunges and Vulpes knocks the fist away, countering with a speared jab into Lucius’ side.  Lucius falters slightly then sweeps one of Vulpes’ legs away, knocking him off balance.  As Vulpes stumbles, Lucius delivers a hard hit to the chest and Vulpes falls over backwards, coughing and trying to catch his breath.

 

“You used to be honorable,” Lucius looks down at the frumentarii.  “Caesar trusted you… I respected you…  And you threw it all away for some… some _courier_?”

 

Vulpes boldly flips to his feet, rising to headbutt Lucius.  Lucius stumbles backwards, blinking repeatedly to clear his vision. 

 

“Not just any courier,” Vulpes responds, “ _That courier from Goodsprings_!”

 

 

Meanwhile Jackson attempts to outrun the dozen swarming Legion soldiers who chase him down with bullets and spears.  He blindly drops a few mines as he tries to make a break for the cliff’s edge but the quick-witted soldiers simply bound over them.  Jackson catches a crippling bullet to the leg and trips along the dirt.  As a soldier moves in on him, Jackson blasts him backwards with his shotgun.  But the other soldiers quickly crowd him.  They cheerfully sneer at the courier in Latin, sadistically beating him with savage hits and kicks.

 

Eventually Jackson’s sight blurs and the pain becomes too much to endure.  Suddenly the sound of rapid gunfire splits the air and the soldiers above Jackson drop and stumble, turning their attention.  Like a knight in matted armor, Boone appears from the dust.

 

“Eat this!” he fires another assault and two unlucky soldiers catch their death.

 

Jackson shakily reloads his shotgun.  From the ground he fires several shells at the oncoming Legion.  A soldier rushes Boone, who aggressively smashes the butt of his rifle into the soldier’s face.  Boone charges through the crowd to swoop down and yank Jackson to his feet, then spins to fire at an attacking soldier.

 

“Oh man, am I glad to see you, Boone,” Jackson laughs weakly, wiping the blood from his nose and mouth with his arm, “Lot of people saving my ass today…”

 

The soldiers regain their confidence and move in on the two.  A veteran wielding a thermic lance stabs at Jackson.  The courier sidesteps the spear, grabbing it, yanks it forward and swings him to the ground.  When the veteran lands in the dirt, Jackson unloads a shell straight to the face.  The two hold off the Legion troops back to back.

 

“Boone, I gotta be honest with ya,” Jackson says as they continue to fight, “I’m gonna blow Hoover Dam to smithereens.”

 

Boone shoots an oncoming soldier dead.  “I know… and I think I get it.  Make the Mojave start over from scratch… rebirth it like it did you in Goodsprings.”

 

“You’re okay with that?” Jackson asks, “I always took you as an NCR loyalist.”  Another soldier moves in close.  When Jackson tries to fire at him, he grabs Jackson’s arm and points it upward and the shot unloads into the sky.  Boone seizes the soldier by the helmet and fires into his spine.

 

“Kimball’s dead and after today, so too is the NCR presence in the Mojave,” Boone responds, “I’m tired of factions; all of them.  If this is what it takes to bring people together, so be it.”

 

Through the attacking soldiers, Jackson can make out the remainder of the NCR troops standing on the wall of Hoover Dam firing at his securitrons.  The Legion soldiers circle Jackson and Boone, keeping them center with prodding spears. 

 

 

As Jackson and Boone fight, Vulpes and Lucius continue their brawl, now both bruised and bloodied nearing their limits.  Lucius fakes right and delivers a heavy left cut to the face, following it up with a punch to the gut then knocks Vulpes to the ground with a side-kick.  On his hands and knees, Vulpes attempts to grimace through the pain and spits a glob of blood into the sand.

 

“Tell me Vulpes…” Lucius speaks arrogantly, “How long have you been corrupted by that courier?  One month?  Six months?  Two years?”  Vulpes meets Lucius’ gaze with matched ferocity.  “Have you forgotten all that Caesar’s Legion has done for you?  It gave you a family, a home and a name.  How do you replay Legion?”

 

“Legion… destroyed my family, destroyed my home, destroyed my former self…” Vulpes seethes, “I **am** repaying Legion!”

 

Inspired by the courier’s wild style, Vulpes grabs a fistful of sand and spins, tossing it in Lucius’ face.  As Lucius rubs his eyes, Vulpes leaps to his feet and kicks out Lucius’ legs from under him.  Lucius clumsily loses his balance, his head smashing against the ground with an audible crack.  Vulpes stands over Lucius brandishing his gauntlet.

 

“Think about what you’re doing, Vulpes…” Lucius hisses, cradling his fractured skull, “Legion is preserving humanity!  The hedonism of the profligates will be the death of mankind!”

 

“No…” Vulpes shakes his head, “It’s not self-indulgence that poisons humanity… it’s egocentric sanctimoniousness…”

 

“Rot in hell, you gutless deviant!” Lucius spits.

 

“…Vale, Lucius.”  Vulpes winds up his fist as Lucius yells.  The hit strikes dead-on and the ballistics in the knuckles fire, sending Lucius’ head bursting to spray Vulpes in the color of his former allegiance.  

 

 

Meanwhile Jackson and Boone are being circled by the last half dozen soldiers.  Boone grimly regards the last clip in his rifle.

 

“How’s your leg, Jackson?” Boone asks, glancing at the courier’s limp.

 

“It’s fine,” Jackson grimaces, “I’m fine.”

 

“Make a break for the dam,” Boone says as they eye the spears and lances pointed their way.  “I'll hold them off… just go.”

 

Jackson begins to stutter a response and Boone pushes his head down then wildly fires his rifle in a circle.  As the soldiers duck and toss up their hands, Boone grabs Jackson by the collar and shoves him away.  Jackson stumbles and catches himself, ignoring his intense pain and sprints the last leg.  He glances over his shoulder to see the soldiers swarm Boone.

 

Finally Jackson reaches the cliff.  For a brief moment he stands in awe at the sights.  The mighty Hoover Dam now littered with cracks and charred concrete, little spouts of water spraying from deeper crevices.  The remaining securitrons continue firing at the structure, undeterred at the last of the NCR soldiers above pick them off.

 

 

A little ways away Boone catches a spear to the shoulder when his rifle is spent.  When he recoils, another soldier knocks him to the ground and his gun soars from his grip.  Before the soldiers can attack again, another sporadic patter of gunfire snaps focus.  They spin to see Vulpes firing until there’s just one left.  Boone nimbly draws his knife and kicks out the legs the last soldier.  When he falls to the ground, Boone drives the blade into his neck. 

 

The last of the Legion soldiers dead, Vulpes silently offers his hand to Boone, who eyes his crimson armor but wordlessly accepts the hand and Vulpes pulls Boone to his feet.  

 

 

On the cliff, Jackson loads a high explosive rocket into the chamber of his launcher.  He runs his fingers across the painted insignia of the American flag along the stock then aims the weapon at the fractured dam and grins.

 

“War never changes, motherfucka…” He squeezes the trigger. 

 

The rocket spears through the air, trailing a vivid neon glow of exhaust as it travels.  It crashes into the broken concrete and detonates.  There’s a brief moment of nothingness.  Then the dam splits open.  The mighty structure bursts, bringing forth a cataclysmic wave of white rapids that instantly consumes the securitrons and the last of the NCR soldiers.  As the dam crumbles away, the tsunami pours into the valley with such sheer mass, from a distance it seems to travel in slow-motion.  Jackson stands tall on the cliff and salutes.

  

* * *

 

**Part XIV:  Peace In The Valley**

 

The long-awaited battle for Hoover Dam over, Legion and NCR lay in ruin.  Whatever soldiers survived fled the battlefield when the dam burst and all that’s left are bodies among wreckage.  Jackson, Vulpes and Boone rest on the cliff looking out at the demolished structure.  Jackson sits in the dirt smoking a cigarette as Vulpes nurses the bullet wound in his leg.

 

 “Legion and NCR won’t be bothering the Mojave anymore…” Vulpes chuckles weakly as he stitches Jackson’s injury, “Honestly, I can’t believe it worked.”

 

“I hate to have to say it but, I couldn’t’ve done it without you guys,” Jackson grimaces a little as Vulpes ties a final knot in the wound.

 

“Too bad it came to it…  But blowing the dam is easy enough,” Boone starts, “Uniting and rebuilding the Mojave will be tougher.”

 

Jackson thanks Vulpes then strains to his feet.  “So what are you going to do now, Boone?”

 

Boone stares off into the hills.  “I suppose I’ll hang around for a while longer…  Help people.  Make sure no one makes the same mistakes as before…”

 

Jackson thinks for a moment.  “Why don’t you take over the Lucky 38 for me?” he looks at Vulpes tenderly, “I don’t think we’ll be sticking around.”  He looks back to Boone.  “You should hit up all my contacts…  Veronica, Raul, Cass, Lily…  They’re good people.  They’ll gladly help you repair the Mojave.”

 

“Boone…” Vulpes holds his hand out to the sniper.

 

Boone nods curtly and the two shake hands; not as soldiers of NCR and Legion but simply as two people brought together by the famed Courier Six. 

 

“Keep an eye on Jackson,” Boone attempts to force a small out-of-character smile, “He’s a magnet for trouble.”  Vulpes chuckles softly.  The sniper turns his attention back to Jackson.  “One more thing, Jackson…” he reaches into his pocket and hands something to the courier.  Jackson turns it over in his palm.  It’s a modest little harmonica.  “I know it can’t replace your guitar… but maybe it’ll hold you over until you find another one out in the wastes.”

 

Jackson squeezes the harmonica affectionately and looks to Boone, fighting back tears.  “Oh, Boone…” he flutters his eyelids, “You goddamn beautiful son of a Supermutant…  Get over here.” 

 

“No, no, no, no, please—” Boone adamantly contests as Jackson brings him into a deep embrace.  But Boone sighs and leans into the hug.

 

“Take care of yourself, Jackson,” Boone pats Jackson on the shoulder, then departs.

  

* * *

 

Jackson sighs a little with a half-cocked grin watching the sniper disappear beyond the hills.  He tugs on his cigarette, recanting all the adventures he’s had in the desert.  He briefly considers what sort of grand tattoo he’ll have to get to commemorate his strife that day, his thoughts cut short when Vulpes wordlessly pucks the cigarette from his fingers and pulls on it.  Jackson grins watching him smoke. 

 

“What?” Vulpes catches Jackson staring and smiling like an idiot.

 

Jackson leans in and the two kiss deeply.  He pulls away with a short sigh, “I know we just endured the horrors of war but…  I’m happy now.  Here, with you.”

 

Vulpes chuckles a little, taken aback and flicks the cigarette off the side of the cliff towards the new river below.  “What’s next?”

 

Jackson thinks for a moment, “Well New Vegas is pretty played out…”

 

“Hmph,” Vulpes cocks an eyebrow, “So where to?”

 

The two get to their feet and Jackson wraps his arm around Vulpes.  “Hmm… I hear there’s new adventure on the east coast.”

 

“East, huh…” Vulpes thinks, “I’ve never been out that way.”

 

“Me neither,” Jackson beams, “We can reinvent ourselves.  It’ll be fun!”

 

Jackson blows into the pipes of the harmonica and Vulpes rolls his eyes.  As they walk off Jackson sings.

 

“ _You’ve got a way… to keep me on your side.  You give me cause… for love that I can’t hide.  For you I know I’d even try to turn the tide…  Because you’re mine…  I walk the line…”_

  

* * *

  **The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading "The Wanderer". I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Oh and hopefully this last chapter read alright. Let me know if I should edit it or whatever.


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